


You Are The Sun

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), spiderpool - Fandom, spideypool - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal, Anxiety, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Dates, First Time Blow Jobs, Francis And Vanessa Have Small Roles, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, I am incapable of sad endings, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Panic Attacks, Peter Is A Sex Slave, Peter Turns Eighteen, Peter has PTSD, Slow Burn, Spiderpool - Freeform, Spideypool - Freeform, Wade Is A Mercenary, Wade is a sweetheart, Worth It In The End, cross-dressing, lots of fluff to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-05-19 22:18:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: "It had started out like any other job, and now there was a teenage strip-dancing sex slave in Wade Wilson’s pyjamas."Wade is a mercenary with a past more chequered than a redneck's wardrobe, and Peter is a pole-dancing sex slave owned by a New York mob-boss. After buying Peter's freedom, Wade wants to show him that not everyone is as cruel as he's been led to believe. Many unexpected things follow, but could it evolve into to something more - something neither of them ever thought could happen?Modern!AU (no powers). Regular uploads, I promise. Drama, intrigue, lots of sex, fluff and love in later chapters.





	1. The Tension and the Spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title from The Last of the Real Ones by Fall Out Boy (my eternal Spideypool song).
> 
> Chapter title song from I Like The Way by Darren Hayes.

It had started out like any other job, and now there was a teenage strip-dancing sex slave in Wade Wilson’s pyjamas.

  Granted, it wasn’t nearly the strangest thing that had happened in his sensationally unusual life – it probably wouldn’t even make the top ten – but it was certainly the strangest this week.

  When Weasel had given him a gold card with the name of a powerful New York gang leader inscribed on it, he’d accepted the job without thought. Business had been annoyingly boring lately, and it was a relief to have a target with some oomph. Once the target was sufficiently deceased, he’d been informed by Weasel that the client – Armond Crewe, a New York crime boss and regular employer of Wade’s services – had invited him to receive his personal thanks at his private club.

  Wade approached the enormous metal door in the location Weasel had told him. The surrounding buildings were mostly disused warehouses and factories – the setting for pretty much all the city’s shadiest deals and underground operations. He gave the metal a chipper series of knocks and a small panel slid across to reveal a pair of suspicious eyes glaring down at him.

  “Password.” It was an order, not a request.

  “Bugsy sent me,” Wade said and the panel slammed shut. Could these guys _be_ any more like TV bad guys? A series of heavy clicks preceded the door being wrenched open by the seven-foot-fuck doorman. Wade blew him a kiss and the thug spat on the floor. He followed the red-lit corridor down towards the sound of heavy bass and deep-voiced chatter and met with another bodyguard – this one normal human-sized – who took one look at his face and nodded him through the doorway. Wade didn’t question this ease of entry – there couldn’t be many six-foot-three all-over burn victims, even in New York City.

  He entered the club and was immediately accosted by the smell of liquor and smoke – nicotine _and_ grass. The club was circular with small stages posted between the tables, and Wade stole a glance at the hot young thing grinding against the closest stripper’s pole. The whole place was decorated in varying shades of red, so it was rather like stepping into a giant womb.

  Giant Womb – hell of a band name right there.

  He could see no sign of anyone who might be the boss of the joint, so he slid onto a bar stool and ordered a Glenmorangie, turning his attention back to the dancer on the stage. She had long brown hair, a devastatingly pretty face, and the sort of tight, slender body that had paedos and perverts reaching for their unmarked white van keys. Her chest was flattened under bindings of black leather and her perfect little ass cupped by matching skin-tight booty shorts. The height of her stiletto heels gave her hips a hypnotic sway as she danced to the music. A couple of execs were smirking up at her from the nearest table, and she was smiling suggestively back, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  A heavy clap on his shoulder made him snap to his feet, the Para-Ordnance P-14 he had strapped to his belt already in hand and locked on target.

  “Whoa! At ease, soldier,” a short man dressed in an exquisite cream suit said in a surprisingly jovial tone for someone with the barrel of a gun in his face. Glancing at the two brick-shithouse bodyguards standing either side of him, their own pistols brandished, Wade could understand why.

  “You must be Wade Wilson,” the cream suit said. “The one and only.”

  Wade slowly replaced his gun with a grin and took another sip of scotch, trying to soothe the sudden surge of adrenaline now pumping through his veins.

  “You should know better than to surprise a merc, boss.”

  The man threw back his head and laughed.

  “Careless in my old age, it seems,” he held out a hand towards Wade. “Armond Crewe.”

  They shook and Crewe snapped his fingers for the attention of the barman. “Luka, another for my friend.”

  The barman topped up Wade’s glass and reached for a bottle of cognac, decanting some into a monogramed crystal glass. Wade supressed a snort at the absurdity of this guy – could he _be_ any more extra?

  “Let us drink to the memory of the dearly departed,” Crewe raised his glass to Wade, “and to your good health.”

  “Might have missed the boat on that one,” Wade said, tipping his glass to Crewe. “By about two square metres of skin.”

  Crewe paused for a moment before erupting into another booming laugh. “To you, Mr. Wilson.”

  The two men drank and Wade’s attention slipped back to the dancing girl. Crewe followed the line of his gaze and gave a self-satisfied smirk.

  “Like what you see, Mr. Wilson? Allow me to give you a closer look.”

  He moved away from the bar, glass in hand, and beckoned for Wade to follow. The two businessmen enjoying the show shifted to the next table over as they approached, allowing them the best view.    

  Up close, Wade could see the girl looked a lot younger than he’d initially thought – sixteen or seventeen at most – and felt a little sickened by how sexy he still found her.

  She turned her back to them and swayed her ass from side to side, her hands sliding down the pole until she was almost sitting on the ground. She lifted her long, slender legs up in front of her and wrapped her ankles around the pole, the sheer strength in her thighs keeping her elevated as she leaned back to touch the stage with her fingertips. She slid down an inch and flattened her palms against the floor, slowly sweeping her legs down in a graceful curve until her heels were grounded again. Straightening back into a standing position, she crossed her ankles and turned to face Wade and the suits. She lowered herself onto her knees and bowed her head, her long hair covering her face, and held out her hands – palms up, wrists together – like she was begging for something.

  Wade was bemused, until Crewe stood and began wrapping a length of thick black ribbon we drew from his pocket around her wrists like rope. He muttered something to her that Wade couldn’t hear over the music and she nodded, swinging her legs out from under her and hopping down off the stage. He tugged on the lead and led her, uncomfortably akin to a slave in bondage, towards where Wade was sitting. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her and, as they stopped in front of him, he couldn’t help reaching out to touch the skin of her arm, her skin pale pink under the hazy red glow of the club. She lifted her head and looked directly into his eyes. He expected her to flinch at the sight of his disfigured skin – difficult to see as it was under the tinted spotlights – but her gaze seemed so resigned, so automatic, that it was like she didn’t even see him. This close, he could see more of the details of her face – the sweetness of her lips, the gentle curve of her eyebrows, the soft line of her jaw—

  “Angel,” Crewe stroked her hair, his fingers coming to rest around the back of her neck, holding her in place. “This is Mr. Wilson.” He spoke slowly to her, as though in a foreign language, or like she was a flighty animal. “Mr. Wilson has done me a great service today,” Crewe continued. “I’d like you to show him my gratitude. On the house.”

  Wade’s eyes were still locked on the girl’s face. “That really won’t be necessary,” he said. It wasn’t like he was a stranger to the ladies of the night – Hell, he’d gone steady with one not too long ago – but never this young. From what he could tell, she was barely more than a kid, and, while his moral compass didn’t exactly point true North, he prided himself on some scruples when it came to little girls doing the job of a grown woman. Or man – Wade wasn’t fussy.

  “No need to be so noble,” Crewe’s hand moved down Angel’s back, coming to rest on her ass. “Angel loves to make my friends happy. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

  Angel nodded and ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip, her dark eyes raking over Wade’s body. It was a convincing act, and Wade cursed the thrill of desire that raced through him under her gaze. He found himself reaching out for the lead Crewe was holding up for him.

  “Your choice of ass or mouth,” Crewe said, and Wade almost choked on the last gulp of scotch he was draining from his glass. “Sixty minutes enough?”

  Wade nodded. He had already decided he wasn’t actually going to do anything to the poor little thing, but he had a sense that Crewe wouldn’t take no for an answer, and he could at least give her a break for an hour.

  “Behind the back wall, room number five,” Crewe said. “Once again, Mr. Wilson – my sincerest thanks for your services.”

  Wade led the girl towards the back of the club – she followed meek as a lamb – and through an archway veiled by a thick velvet curtain. A line of ten black doors stretched out to either side, and Wade wondered if behind each one was a little girl like Angel being forced to do “ass or mouth” for whomever Crewe was feeling magnanimous towards. Anyone who was willing to do that shit to a kid deserved to have their junk cut off and fed to them.

  He felt a tug on the cord in his hand and turned to see Angel trying to steer him down the corridor to door number five. He wasn’t naïve enough to interpret her haste as excitement or eagerness – she just wanted to get it over with.

  The room behind door five was small and dimly lit, with Chinese lanterns strung across the ceiling. A semi-circle bed was pushed up against one wall, festooned with enough silk throws and decorative cushions that it wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Turkish brothel. A display of condoms was fanned out across a rectangular table by the door, just in case the room didn’t scream “sex” enough. Angel closed the door behind her, and the thumping music from the club dimmed to a dull bass.

  Angel dropped to her knees in front of Wade and he took a step back, but she was only proffering her bound wrists to him for release. He unwound the cord and she rubbed at the skin.

  “Listen, kid,” Wade said quietly. He knew his appearance didn’t exactly strike comfort into the hearts of others, but he could at least make his voice less threatening. “I’m not gonna do anything to you.”

  She didn’t seem to be listening, as she began slowly rubbing her hands up the front of his thighs towards his belt. He stepped away and took hold of her wrists, ducking down into a crouch to look into her face.

  “Stop,” he said. She stared at him with wide, confused eyes. “Angel— Is that your real name? Tell me the truth.”

  Slowly, she shook her head.

  “What is it?”

  He could see her chest rising and falling like she was trying not to panic. He felt a stab of disgust towards Armond Crewe for doing this to an innocent kid.

  “You. . . don’t want to hear it,” she said.

  That was when the penny dropped so hard Wade heard it hit the ground.

  He stood up, pulling her with him, and pushed her long hair away. She was so pretty, even under the three layers of make-up plastered over her face, but now he could see it – there was no mistaking what was hiding under the lipstick and false eyelashes.

  Angel was, undeniably, a boy.

  Biologically speaking, at least. How she (he? They?) identified themselves was a different thing, Wade understood that. He also understood why Crewe had specified ass or mouth – there was nothing in between.

  “Jesus Christ,” Wade ran a leather-gloved hand over his face, unable to take his eyes off the kid. Now he knew, it was impossible not to see it. He could feel Angel’s body trembling beneath his fingers.

  “Hey, kid, it’s okay,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  It was obvious they didn’t believe him. Before he could react, they suddenly dropped to their knees and began fumbling with the buckle on his belt.

  “Whoa, whoa!” Wade took three large steps away.

  “Please, sir.” It was the voice that had given them away. While not especially deep, it was unmistakably male. “Please. . . he’ll. . . he’ll be angry with me. He’ll. . .”

  “I’ll tell him you sucked my brains out, alright? Fuck.” The anger and shock were making Wade’s brain numb. He sat down heavily on the bed, his forehead against his palms. The kid just stayed on the ground, their hair covering their face.

  “Look, just tell me your name – the name _you_ call yourself.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Peter,” the kid said at last.

  “Peter. I’m Wade. So, you _are_ a boy – in here?” Wade tapped the side of his own head with his forefinger.

  Peter lowered his head even further, the tips of his brown curls grazing the floor, and nodded.

  “Fuck!” Wade slammed his fist into the wall and Peter jumped like a startled rabbit. “Sorry, sorry,” Wade cursed himself. The kid was obviously scared to shit, and here he was trying to punch holes in the drywall. Slow, steady movements. It was just harder to control himself with rage coursing through him. It sucked enough that there were kids born in the wrong body; Armond Crewe had inflicted it upon this kid on purpose, without consent or regard for what it could do to him. Combine that with endlessly whoring the poor little bastard out to the next mook in line and Wade was amazed the kid hadn’t snapped completely.

  “Is that your real hair?” he asked. It was a strange question but the first one that revolved to the front of his mind.

  Peter nodded.

  Next question. “How long have you been here?”

  Peter paused for a moment, thinking. “Three years.”

  “Three? Jesus, how old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  The ADHD section of Wade’s brain presented the obvious _Twilight_ joke for his use, but he suppressed it. Seriously – not the time.

  So the kid had been doing this shit since he was fourteen. Wade felt sick.

  “Come here,” he said, patting the spot beside him. Peter crawled on his hands and knees to the bed and climbed up to sit next to him. Even his movements were feminine – the way he moved his hips as he crawled was obviously predesigned to seduce his usual customers.

  “How’d you get here?”

  Peter didn’t answer. Either he didn’t know or he didn’t want to remember. Wade sighed and pushed back the hood of his sweater, exposing his bald head to the cool air. Peter moved as though to touch him, then reconsidered and pulled away. Wade gently took hold of his hand and held it in front of his eyes. Slender fingers, close-bitten nails, protruding knuckles – Wade reckoned if he’d seen Peter’s hands first, he would have known at once. Cautiously, like he was expecting Wade to lash out, Peter touched his fingertips to the rough skin of Wade’s cheek. Wade closed his eyes; it had been six years since the accident that had melted his flesh like butter. He would never normally have permitted anyone to touch him – he’d even shied away from Vanessa, the woman he’d thought was the love of his life – but there was something about this kid that gave him pause. Wade wanted Peter to trust him, and the first step to that was showing trust in return.

  He expected Peter to ask questions, but he didn’t; perhaps out of fear that Wade would turn the questions back on him.

  “Peter,” he said, and the kid seemed surprised at hearing his name – his real name – spoken aloud to him. “Are you happy here?”

  A dumb question – a mind-blowingly stupid question – but Wade wanted to hear him say it before he went any further with the plan brewing in his scrambled brain. He could see a brightness in Peter’s eyes, and his heart broke for the poor little thing as the tears welled up and spilled over onto his painted cheeks. On impulse, Wade reached out and wrapped his arms around the teen’s skinny body, holding one hand against the back of his head and stroking his hair. He could feel him shaking.

  “Listen,” he whispered, and the kid fell still as a statue. “If I could get you out of here, take you with me when I leave. . . Would you want to come with me?”

  Peter hesitated. Wade could almost hear his heart thundering through his chest.

  “He says it’s not safe for me.”

  Wade didn’t need to ask who “he” was.

  “And it’s safe for you in here, is it?” He hoped Peter could tell that the fury rumbling through his voice was directed at Crewe, not him.

  Peter just shrugged helplessly. Crewe had probably been telling him since he first arrived what a dark and dangerous place the city was and he was much better off – lucky, even – to be subjected to rape several times every day.

  “I’m a mercenary,” Wade felt obliged to say. “That’s why I’m here – Crewe hired me. My place is a shithole and I don’t know a thing about teenagers.” He pulled away and cupped Peter’s heart-shaped face in his leather-clad hands, looking deep into his eyes with what he hoped was sincerity and not intimidation. “This city’s full of scum who’d try to hurt you, but as long as you’re with me, no-one will ever touch you – this way or any other – again unless you want them to. And that includes me. I’ll protect you, I promise.”

  Peter’s fingers were gripping into the fabric of his sweater like vices, his eyes swimming with tears, his lips pressed tightly together. He looked so desperate, so hopeful, and so intensely frightened. Wade pulled him back into his arms and rocked him like he was a tiny child in the throes of a nightmare. He felt Peter nod his head.

    Wade caught his breath. So, this was happening.

  “It’s okay, you’re alright, I’ve got you,” he murmured. He could feel Peter crying against him and his heart twisted with pity for this poor boy who’d been forced into this life. Wade had suffered his own share of abuse in his lifetime – enough to know just how it felt to be so helpless, so entirely at another person’s mercy. “I’ll protect you,” he said again, thinking back to a time when he’d have given anything to hear those words spoken to him. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  Peter swallowed thickly. “He won’t let you.”

  Wade looked down into Peter’s face. Large pools of mascara were smeared across his cheeks, tear tracks criss-crossing through the heavy layer of foundation.

  “Leave him to me.”

 

*                     *                      *

 

Wade took hold of Peter’s hand as they stepped through the velvet curtain and back into the smoky den of the club. There were more girls dancing now, and Wade could feel their eyes following him as he led Peter back towards Peter’s stage – now taken over by a busty blonde – where Crewe was sitting with another businessman – this one in a dark red suit. Peter had both his arms wrapped around Wade’s left, and as they walked, Wade entwined their fingers together. He didn’t care if he had to bribe, beg or blow Crewe – he was taking this kid with him tonight.

  “Ahh, Mr. Wilson,” Crewe turned to face the two of them, a fresh glass of cognac in his thick-fingered hand. “I trust my little Angel was to your satisfaction? Did you behave yourself?” he added to Peter, who nodded fervently. It seemed to be an automatic response for the kid to agree with everything Crewe said or asked him to do.

  It was then that Crewe seemed to notice their hands clasped together, and a frown slowly took over his easy expression.

  “I’m keeping him, Crewe,” Wade said. No point in beating about the bush. He’d decided that the best way was to refer to Peter like Crewe did – as goods to be sold, bought and bartered for.

  Crewe leaned back in his seat and his bodyguards, sensing trouble, rested their hands on the holsters of their guns. Wade wanted to keep this interaction as uncharacteristically passive as possible – he didn’t want Peter to be caught in the crossfire.

  “You understand I can’t let you do that, Mr. Wilson,” Crewe said. He clicked his fingers at Peter and pointed to the empty spot beside him. Wade felt Peter’s fingers loosen in his grip and watched as he meekly walked over and knelt at Crewe’s feet. It seemed his fear of Crewe was stronger than his will to resist him.

  “Clean yourself up,” Crewe commanded. “You’re entertaining Mr. Montez in ten minutes.”

  “Nah, he’s not,” Wade withdrew his combat knife and casually twirled it between his fingers. Peter froze, mid-way to standing, and Crewe’s bodyguards raised their guns and cocked the hammers. Wade rolled his eyes. “Oh, relax,” he said. “I’m hardly gonna take you down with a pocket knife.”

  “She’s my best piece of merchandise, Mr. Wilson,” Crewe said, running his thick fingers over Peter’s hair. Wade could see his shoulders tensing under the boss’s touch. “I can’t just let you take her.”

  “I never said I wouldn’t pay,” he said.

  Crewe raised an eyebrow, his interested clearly piqued. Wade pulled the thick wad of bank notes he still had stashed in his pocket from payment early that evening; $500,000. He placed the money firmly on the table and waited for Crewe’s reaction. He could practically hear the cogs turning in the gangster’s head.

  “A million.”

  Wade suppressed a grin. One mil was nothing to him – he had guns worth more than that – but it wouldn’t hurt to play the man’s game.

  “Six-hundred.”

  “Nine-fifty.”

  “Seven-seven-five,” Wade raised a hand against Crewe’s reply. “Aaaaand. . . I’ll owe you a favour.”

  He knew it was risky. The sort of “favour” a man like Armond Crewe would ask was unlikely to be as vanilla as killing a rival mob boss, but Wade’s resume was full of enough nasty shit for it to be anything likely beyond his morals.

  Crewe considered the deal, his fingers wound loosely in Peter’s long hair. Given two seconds Wade would happily have sliced his hand off at the wrist just to stop him touching the kid. He stowed his knife away before the temptation grew too great. After what felt like ten minutes, Crewe smiled.

  “It seems we have an agreement, Mr. Wilson.”

  They shook hands.

  “I’ll be taking him now,” Wade said.

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Wilson,” Crewe said silkily, and Wade noticed his grip on Peter tightening a little. “How could I possibly be sure you’ll even be back with the rest of the payment?”

  Wade was not about to walk out without Peter at his side, and he was willing to fight every shit-biscuit here to make sure of that. He was calculating how quickly he could shoot both bodyguards between the eyes (or possibly in the balls) when Crewe burst into uproarious laughter. Peter flinched at the sudden noise and Wade’s stomach loosened in relief.

  “Here,” Crewe gave Peter a brisk smack on the ass, sending him stumbling into Wade’s arms. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wilson.”

  Wade forced himself to grin, though by the way the bodyguards shifted it must have looked more like a snarl. He looked down at Peter, who was gripping his sweater like he was bracing against a tornado.

  “I’ll have a friend drop by Sister Margaret’s at midnight,” Crewe said. Of course midnight – Wade was surprising the drama queen hadn’t said “by the hour of twelve”. “Have the rest of the money for him by then.”

  It was closing on nine-fifty now; it took twenty minutes by subway to get to Wade’s apartment from here, then a fifteen-minute walk to Sister Margaret’s, which left about an hour and a half for him. He wasn’t sure what the kid would want to do once he’d gained freedom, but for tonight, Wade was bringing him back to his place.

  He looked down at Peter and smiled. “We’ll get your stuff, then let’s blow this popsicle stand!”

  Peter gave a slightly hysterical shout of laughter, and covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes brimming with tears again. Wade could only imagine the quagmire of emotions the kid was feeling – fear, incredulity, and (he hoped) relief.

  Keeping a watchful eye on Crewe’s bodyguards (he didn’t trust the boss not to change his mind again), Wade followed Peter through the club – Peter swaying a little on his stiletto heels – to a door in the furthermost back corner, up a flight of stairs behind, and onto a narrow landing with doors leading off. One of them was propped open, the sound of chatter and soft music drifting out from within. Through the gap, Wade could see a beautiful twenty-something girl sitting on a chair, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette poised between her fingers. Her hair was blonde and heavily backcombed, her eyes and lips painted to perfection, her feet clad in the same stripper heels as Peter. Judging by the generous curves of her hips and the amply-filled sequinned bra she was sporting above a pair of red hot-pants, Wade guessed this one really _was_ a girl.

  His foot creaked on the wood floor and she looked round. Her eyes fixed on Wade and she muttered to someone out of view. The door was pulled all the way open, and a tall, dark-skinned young man peered out. While his clothing was designed for a male – or as masculine as a leather thong could be – his face was also made up with peacock shades of turquoise, purple and gold. The effect was quite dazzling, and Wade had a sudden vision of the man’s long legs wrapped around a pole – or possibly around _him_. He had to hand it to Crewe – the guy had quite the selection of beauty at his disposal.

  The young man’s gaze roamed over Wade with thinly-veiled astonishment. He’d pulled his hood up again to cover the majority of his scars, but he knew his face was still a fright to behold. Peter unbuckled his stilettos, kicked them aside and padded, barefoot, over to the two other dancers. Without them he was just under average height – five-seven or -eight at most.

  The girl stubbed out her cigarette and rose to her feet, eyes narrowed in suspicion.  She slung an arm around Peter’s shoulders and glared at Wade. “Who’s this, sweetie?”

  “Wade Wilson,” Wade introduced himself. “Peter’s Fairy Godmother.”

  The black guy snorted.

  “Jay.” Peter glanced apologetically back at Wade. He still looked nervous, like he was expecting Wade to decide he wasn’t worth the money after all. He muttered something Wade couldn’t hear and the guy looked back at Wade with something more akin to awe than distrust.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Peter said and Wade nodded, watching as Peter slipped behind one of the doors and snapped it shut behind him. Jay blew out his cheeks in a clear display of disbelief and ducked back inside the dressing-room. The girl stayed where she was, her eyes fixed on Wade, staring him down. He raised his eyebrows – or where his eyebrows had been, now no more – and widened his eyes in a “what’re you looking at?” expression. Taking this as a challenge, she marched towards him with such purpose Wade almost pulled out his gun, certain she was about to shank him.

  “What’re you going to do with him?” she demanded, her voice a low hiss.

  Wade shrugged. “I thought he’d make a nice draft excluder.”

  She glowered, her vivid blue eyes practically sparking. “Don’t joke with me.”

  “Who’s joking? He’s a bit skinny but with a little fattening up—”

  “Cut the bullshit!” She gripped the front of his sweater in her fist and brought her face close to his. He could have removed her and possibly broken her arm in less than a second, but he was impressed by her gall. Besides, he saved that shit for people who actually deserved it. He liked this girl. He shrugged again, this time with more sincerity.

  “I’m not gonna hurt him,” he sighed, raising his eyes to Heaven, “I know I look like I’m gonna cook him and eat him, but I just wanted to get him out of this place.”

  She squinted suspiciously. “Why?”

  He felt a jolt of annoyance – what sort of question was that?

  “Because he’s a kid who deserves more than this, okay?”

  “You think he deserves you? Or you deserve him?”

  “No.”

  “Then what—?”

  “Look,” he lost patience, “I have a weakness for poor little bastards who’ve had this much shit thrown at them, and I don’t think even _my_ conscience would let me sleep if I thought one more rapist cunt had their hands on him. That good enough for you?”

  She didn’t answer at first, obviously trying to gage if he was telling the truth.

  “I won’t hurt him,” Wade promised, “and I’d sooner cut my dick off than put it inside him.”

  At that moment, Peter reappeared from his room, make-up and leather discarded – and Wade was almost floored by the difference in him. The term “natural beauty” had obviously been written so it could be used to describe this kid. He was wearing faded jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and his long hair was pulled back from his face in a loose ponytail, revealing possibly the most perfect, pre-Raphaelite features Wade had ever seen on a man or woman. Everything about him seemed in soft-focus – his huge, doe-brown eyes, shadowed by long, soot-black lashes; the faint cleft in the centre of his chin; the elegant contour of his cheekbones; the faint coral pink of his kissable lips. . .

  Wade silently added an amendment to his previous statement: “I’d sooner cut my dick off than put it inside him – _without him wanting it first_.”

  Then he reminded himself that the kid was seventeen and took five mental steps back.

  Peter adjusted the strap of the small duffel bag he had slung over one shoulder and nibbled at the skin around his thumb. He looked so much younger out of make-up, Wade could easily imagine the small, frightened kid he would have been when he was first brought here, and he was struck by the urge to redecorate the club downstairs with Armond Crewe’s lower intestines.

  Wade waited in silence while Peter hugged the girl – Ellen, Peter called her – and they said their goodbyes. She gave him a scrap of paper with her cell number on and made Wade promise under pain of castration that he would buy Peter a phone so she could check in on him. As scary as she was, she was quite sweet under it all. Peter repeated the scene with Jay, and then it was time to go.

  Wade could feel Peter shaking like an autumn leaf clinging to the last breath of summer as they descended the stairs to the club. It was more crowded now – more suits panting like dogs in the Sahara at the dancing girls – but there was no sign of Crewe, for which Wade was pleased. He’d seen enough of the oily scumbag to last him ‘til Judgement Day. Without pausing for thought, he slipped his fingers through Peter’s and led him past the guard and down the narrow corridor to freedom. He almost expected a last-minute fight-or-flight situation (for Wade, it was always fight), but none came. Fate seemed to be on their side just for these few minutes.

  Wade didn’t realise how tense he was until the first guard slammed the huge door behind them with a dull, metallic CLANG and he felt his shoulders droop back into their normal position. Peter let out a long, shuddering breath – and burst into tears.

  “Hey, hey,” Wade said, unable to hide the laughter from his voice. “It’s okay. You did it – you don’t ever have to go back in that fucking place again.”

  Whether through physical fatigue, emotional overload, or the gentle rocking motion of the subway train, Peter fell asleep on Wade’s shoulder as they made the journey back to his apartment. Wade curled one arm around the boy’s shoulders and tucked him safely against his side. He fit so perfectly in the little nook that it gave Wade a sudden, long-forgotten sense of butterflies in the pit of his stomach. He was almost drowning under the overwhelming urge he felt to protect this kid he’d just met.

  Peter seemed so deeply asleep when they rolled up to the station just five minutes from his apartment that Wade simply hooked his arms under his slender body and lifted him, easy as if he’d been made of paper, and carried him up the subway steps and out into the cool night air. The stars were, as always, hidden from view by the ever-present smog the city produced, but he could almost imagine he could see the glow of a full-moon shining through the gloom. Peter shifted in his sleep and snuggled closer to Wade’s chest, his fingers curled into loose fists against his sweater front.

  Once inside Wade’s apartment – he made a mental note in capital letters to at least clear away the arsenal of weapons littering the coffee table before Peter woke up, and possibly burn the trash piled three-bags-deep in the kitchen – Wade took Peter straight through to the bedroom and lay him down gently on the blankets. He set the duffel bag down by the bedside table and pulled Peter’s scuffed white trainers off his feet. Peter came around long enough to allow Wade to remove his shirt and jeans, leaving him sitting like a disoriented toddler in just his undershorts. Wade buttoned him into an old pair of pyjamas he found in the depths of his clothes drawer, and Peter allowed himself to be tucked into the blankets, his hair fanning across the pillow.

  Wade stood at the bedside for what felt like half an hour, but in reality was only a couple of minutes. He knew he had to leave to meet Crewe’s man at Sister Margaret’s, but he was loathed to leave Peter alone for the first time in a strange place. He hoped that he could be gone and back before Peter woke up.

  The last thought that ran through his rambling mind before he tore his eyes away from the beautiful boy that had so unexpectedly wandered into his life, was just seven words:

  _Just try not to fall in love._                   

                                       

              

 

 


	2. My Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title song by Starset.

When the fierce pounding of his heart stirred him from sleep, Peter had no idea where he was.

  The effects of the relaxation drug Crewe gave him at the start of every shift seemed to have abated, but there was a small part at the back of his mind that could just about recall the night’s events. It seemed impossible that what had started out as just an ordinary evening had transposed into something so strange and unexpected.

  He couldn’t deny that, when he’d first seen Wade Wilson, he’d created his own idea of what sort of man he was faster than was fair. In his defence, all the men who entered Crewe’s club generally fitted the same two moulds – over-entitled businessmen who liked to play God, or empty-headed masses of muscle from Sister Margaret’s who wanted to make a young thing squirm. It had become a talent of Peter’s to distinguish which individual guy liked what – for him to moan, scream or be silent. He’d pegged Wade as the sort who would like to hear the pain. Guess he couldn’t be right all the time.

  Crewe got a thrill out of allowing men to fuck Peter’s ass or mouth without them realising his true gender. Those who figured it out, as Wade had, normally liked to express their shock and distaste for his body even as they forced themselves inside it by branding him with a couple more bruises. The thrill of taboo was a great aphrodisiac. The pathologically heterosexual men who chose to fuck his ass kept their hands clamped over his mouth to stifle his voice, while those who preferred mouth would simply wind their hands in his hair and pretend he was a girl as they shoved themselves down his throat. Peter had learned that less men were opposed to fucking a boy than most people thought. A hole was a hole, after all, and plenty of men were just as happy to stick their dick in a girl’s ass – why should his be any different?

  His body started to flood with panic as his heart worked with more ferocity – thick, heavy thumps that crushed his chest, each one feeling a supreme effort. It was like he was conscious of every beat, in agonising slow-motion. Surely this was how it felt to have a heart attack; how it felt to die. His stomach clenched like a fist had clamped around it and he retched, his body rolling off the bed and landing heavily on the hard wood floor. His limbs were shaking as though from exhaustion and dark curtains of unconsciousness were closing in around his vision. He wanted Ellen – she was the one who roused him from these fits of terror, made him feel safe, protected him.

  _“It’s alright . . . I’ll protect you . . . I’ll keep you safe . . .”_

Wade’s words echoed through the fog and he let out a sob. Keep him safe? That was a joke. Nothing – nowhere, no-one – was safe. He’d been a fool to think that this guy would be any different. He’d promised to protect Peter and then he’d left him, alone, in this dark, dirty place. When he returned, he’d probably chain Peter to the bed and use him like every other man did. What else was he good for? His memory conjured Crewe’s words, back when Peter had been young and stupid enough to think he could leave.

  _“What chance do you think you have out there? You’ll be raped and knifed in a gutter within three blocks. You don’t have the brains to make it on your own. This is your home; you’re safe here. This is what you were meant to do, Peter. Are you really so selfish that you’d deny men the chance to touch you?”_

  That’s what he was – stupid and selfish. He’d walked out on Crewe after he’d kept a roof over his head since he was fourteen, when he’d had no place else to go. His aunt and uncle were dead, his parents long gone, and he would have died on the streets if Crewe hadn’t found him and taken him in. Was it so much of a task to make other men happy? That’s what Crewe told him he did – he used his body to make men happy. He had no brains; his looks were all he had going for him. He could stand the pain of being fucked again and again – and again and again – if it meant he was safe. And where was he now? Curled up in a ball on the floor of a complete stranger’s apartment, miles away from everything familiar, with no idea what would happen to him when Wade returned. He’d walked out on Crewe’s protection into No Man’s Land.

  His stomach gave a painful heave and, before he could hold it back, he threw up across the bedroom floor. His head was pounding, his heart screaming in fear, and he was going to die alone, undefended, unwanted.

  Unloved.

*              *              *

It was ten minutes past midnight and Wade was starting to get seriously pissed off. He’d been throwing his combat knife at the dart board with increasing aggression for the past twenty minutes. There were still two or three mercs boozing at the surrounding tables – the bar didn’t officially close ‘til one – all of whom were solidly ignoring Wade. Even the greenest of newbies knew to avoid him when he started throwing shit at the walls. He’d left Peter asleep in his apartment forty minutes ago, and was so anxious to get back to him that he was concocting various ways he could maim or dismember the asshole who thought it okay to run late for a cash drop.

  He’d told Weasel he was taking a vacation from jobs for a month or so, until Peter was settled enough to be left on his own (as jobs sometimes took him away for days at a time), and Weasel said it sounded like he was housetraining a stray puppy. Wade supposed there was an element of truth in that. Peter was undoubtedly going to be scared, flighty, and liable to bite if Wade didn’t go about things the right way. The poor kid had been through so much shit, and Wade knew guys like Crewe – he would have convinced Peter that he was some magnanimous benefactor who had “saved” him from the dangers of the big bad world. Wade thought about the years Crewe had robbed from Peter. The tentative age of exploration; those crucial years where kids start to find out the building blocks of who they are, what they like, _who_ they like. The time of bad hairstyles captured in film to be regretted at a later date, botched first kisses and fumbling in dark corners of bedrooms, angsty teenage drama, bonding with the friends you’d die for, fallings-out that seemed like the end of the world. All the bad shit, all the great shit – lost.

  Wade would be damned if he wasn’t going to give this kid the best second chance he could.        

  He was considering switching targets to the bottles lining the wall behind the bar (just to see Weasel’s face), when a voice like a bucket of cold piss over his head derailed his train of thought.

  “Wade fucking Wilson.”

  Wade spun on the spot and launched his knife right at the source of that smug British twang. First prize shit-monger Francis Freeman, self-titled as “Ajax”, the pretentious cunt. Francis glanced down at the knife handle protruding from his bicep and sighed. “This is a new shirt, dickhead.” He flashed that crooked smirk that made Wade want to rearrange his face into a Picasso masterpiece.

  “The fuck do you want, Francis?” Wade sneered, adding more venom to the pronunciation of his enemy’s name than usual. Francis’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

  “I’m here on behalf of our mutual friend,” the Brit said.

  “I was unaware you were acquainted with my cock, Francis,” Wade said. “Well, if you’re _that_ desperate, I’m sure Buck would be happy to oblige.”

  Big, bearded Buck glanced up from the table he was sitting at and gave Francis a saucy wink. Everyone at Sister Margaret’s knew about Wade’s beef with the limey-voiced shit-gobbler, and they knew on which side their loyalties lay (at least without payment). Francis sat down on one of the bar stools.

  “Bad mood, Wilson?” he examined his fingernails with fake nonchalance. “That little piece of ass giving you trouble already? Can’t say I blame her – must be a nightmare come true to have your ugly mug as her Lord and Master. Course, she was more than happy when I shoved my dick in her mouth. Obviously prefers a real man.”

  An unwelcome image flew into Wade’s mind – Peter on his knees in full stripper garb in front of Francis; the bastard’s hand wound in Peter’s hair, holding him in place as he plunged in and out of his perfect mouth, Peter gagging and spluttering against him, tears running down his face. It just was Wade’s own imagination showing him the worst, but that familiar veil of white-hot rage still descended.

  It was common knowledge amongst the merc underground community that Francis Freeman was immune to pain; the result of some long-past government soldier conditioning for the Iraq war. It made him the perfect gun-for-hire, except that he couldn’t tell the difference between the target and collateral damage. He was like a clockwork psychopath; you didn’t contact “Ajax” for a quick, precise hit – you just wound him up and pointed him in the right direction.

  Wade inhaled deeply in an effort to contain himself. He pulled the thick wad of cash from his jacket pocket and slammed it down on the bar in front of Francis, who wasn’t even breaking a sweat, the fucker, even with a five-inch blade embedded in his arm. Taking hold of the handle, Wade gave it a slow, satisfying clockwise twist and withdrew it from the mangled flesh. He knew it wouldn’t kill Francis – cockroaches weren’t that easy to get rid of – but he hoped it could at least be an inconvenience for him.

  “My thanks to our mutual friend,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. As much as he wished he could carve Francis up into a human totem pole, he wanted to get back to Peter as quickly as possible.

  Francis flipped through the notes and, satisfied there was the right amount, stowed them away in his inside pocket. “Have fun with your new toy,” he said.

  “He’s not a toy, you rapist motherfucker,” Wade replied. “He’s just a kid.” He watched as the realisation slowly dawned on Francis’s face, then turned and walked out of the bar.

*              *              *

The first thing Wade heard when he opened the door was a low, pitiful keening sound, like an animal in pain, and he almost sprinted to the bedroom. Peter was curled in a quivering ball on the floor beside the bed, a large pool of vomit creeping out towards the foot of the curtains. The poor kid’s fingers were clutched around the sides of his head like he was trying to stop it splitting open, and Wade could hear his high, ragged breathing.

  “Shitshitshit,” he cursed himself as he knelt down beside Peter, not sure whether it was okay to touch him when he was like this. His knee slipped on the vomit but he barely noticed as it stained his jeans. He needed to check that Peter hadn’t inhaled any of it, though surely he’d already have choked to death if that were the case. _Fuck_ , he was so stupid. Why did he think it was okay to leave the kid alone, even for a little while? He should have brought him with him, or at least woken him up to tell him he was going to be back. He must have woken up in a strange place and freaked out.

  “Hey, baby, hey,” he murmured softly. He hadn’t meant to call the kid ‘baby’, but was so desperate to soothe him that he didn’t notice. He touched the tips of his fingers to Peter’s shoulder and the boy flinched, his wide, petrified eyes visible through the curtains of his hair.

  “Peter? It’s Wade,” he said. He was glad it was dark – the sight of his face might have made the kid panic more. “Can you hear me? Peter, you’re in my apartment. You’re safe.”

  Peter’s skin was white as paper, his ashen lips trembling, his cheeks wet with tears and sweat.

  “Peter, listen,” Wade placed his hands, as softly as he could, either side of Peter’s face and held him still. “You’re safe. I promise, there’s no-one here who’s gonna hurt you.” 

  God, he sucked at this. He had no idea what to fucking do. Nothing he said seemed to be making any difference. He’d been on the receiving end of a panic attack, but never there when someone else was having one. Then Peter’s fingers suddenly clawed at the sleeves of his jacket and he was pressing his skinny body against him. Wade wrapped his strong arms around him, threading his fingers through Peter’s hair and stroking his head.

  “Shhh, it’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay, you’re alright, you’re safe.”

  “I . . .” Peter’s voice was still choked with fear. “I thought . . .”

  “I’m so sorry,” Wade said, mentally kicking himself again. “I shouldn’t have left. I didn’t think you’d wake up.”

  “. . . die,” Peter sobbed. “I was going to . . .”

  “You’re not going to die, I promise. You’re having a panic attack. It sucks, but you’re not going to die.” Something came back to him from a time when Vanessa had been trying to comfort him during an episode. “Can you breathe in deep for me?”

  Peter took in a great shuddering breath.

  “That’s good,” Wade pressed his mouth against the top of Peter’s head, doing whatever felt like the natural thing to do. “Now can you breathe out? Slowly, little puffs, like you’re blowing out candles.”

  Peter did as Wade instructed, three more times under Wade’s command, until his breathing seemed to steady a little. Wade rearranged his position so he was sitting cross-legged on the floor – he was just gonna have to throw these jeans away – and gently pulled Peter towards him so he was draped, sideways, across his lap. Cradling his arms around Peter’s shoulders, he swayed back and forth, rocking him like a baby, until the shaking also subsided.

  “That’s it,” he murmured. “You’re okay, you’re safe. You don’t have to be scared anymore. I’ll always keep you safe, I promise.”

  He knew he was repeating the same stupid things over and over, but if it was working then he didn’t care. The kid’s eyes had drooped shut, and he seemed to be breathing normally again, so Wade reckoned it was safe to move him. Bracing his weight on his ankles, he rose to his feet, keeping Peter’s delicate body wrapped in his arms. He couldn’t have weighed more than 120lbs. He carried him through to the bathroom and set him down slowly on the closed lid of the toilet.

  “I’m going to turn the light on, okay?” he said, and Peter nodded vaguely. He seemed already half asleep again.

  Illuminated in the harsh light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, Peter looked even smaller and more washed out. His hair was a mess, thick locks slick with bile, and there were dark pink scratch marks on his arms, where he’d obviously been clawing at himself in his panic. The front of his shirt was damp and stank of vomit. Wade twisted the hot bath tap and the tub slowly began to fill with water.

  “Peter,” he said. Peter’s eyes opened a fraction, enough for Wade to see the soft brown irises beneath. At this close range, in the light, he could see tiny flecks of olive-green scattered like ink-drops within the chocolate-coloured circles. “I need to take your pyjamas off. Just to get you cleaned up. Is that okay?”

  Peter nodded, and Wade began unbuttoning the front of his shirt. As the material was pulled away, Wade began to see what he hadn’t been able to in the half-dark of the bedroom or the club – multi-coloured bruises stamped across Peter’s chest and stomach, like rusty brand marks. Some looked old, brown and yellow, while others were blue and violet, only recently administered. His heart sank further as he removed the loose pants and discovered more, ugly and vicious, down the insides of his thighs. Some were clearly from hard fingers wrenching his legs apart, and one that looked like an entire handprint on the outside of his left hip. His blood ran white-hot with fury – if the kid really was Crewe’s “best piece of merchandise”, how could he have let those soulless, shit-stained cunt-fucks hurt him like this?

  Wade screwed up the ruined pyjamas and thrust them into a corner of the room to deal with later. He added enough cool to the bathtub so as not to burn Peter’s wounded skin, and lowered him gently into the water. Peter drew his knees up against his chest and leaned his head back, allowing Wade to rinse his long hair. Since Wade had no hair to wash, he didn’t have any shampoo, so he had to make do with cola-scented hand-soap to remove the traces of puke. He noticed Peter tugging on a long strand of it.

  “Do you like your hair this long?” he asked.

  Peter shook his head. “He said it made me look prettier.”

  “We can get it cut tomorrow,” Wade said. “If you want.”

  He soaked a washcloth and wiped it over Peter’s back in slow, circular motions, smiling as the teen closed his eyes and swayed to the rhythmic movement. Wade then washed his chest, stomach and arms, being careful of the freshest bruises. Peter didn’t protest at being treated like a child; Wade rather got the impression it was a comforting feeling for him to be looked after like this. It didn’t surprise him to discover that, aside from his head, Peter was completely hairless – no doubt Crewe’s idea to make him appear more feminine, not to mention about four years younger. Wade’s treacherous mind allowed him a brief, forbidden image of Peter in his natural state – coffee-brown hair cut short, dark curls shadowing the area he was being careful not to touch; his lean, willowy body stretched out against white bedsheets, his eyes hooded with want as he reached out, begging to be touched—

  Wade gave his head a sharp shake and stood up so abruptly he made Peter jump. _Shit_.

  “Towels,” he said, by way of explanation, and left the room before Peter could see the lust his face would surely betray. As he ransacked the cupboards in his bedroom for a towel that had seen the inside of a washing machine this side of Christmas, he gave his face a couple of hard slaps. The kid was seventeen, vulnerable, damaged – _seventeen, for fuck’s sake, you sick creep_. Maybe he wasn’t any better that the men who’d exploited him back in the club. No, that wasn’t true. He’d _never_ force himself on anyone, underage or otherwise. Why did the kid have to be so damn beautiful? He was the most gorgeous boy Wade had ever seen; more so even than most girls he knew. His morals were waging war against his basic sexual desires and he had no idea which side was winning. Knowing his luck, they’d just call a truce and team up to fuck him over completely. Even if the kid wasn’t underage, the sort of trauma he must have gone through made him untouchable. You didn’t just _get over_ that sort of shit overnight.

  Of course, the entire notion of anything happening between the two of them was purely academic. People generally didn’t even want to shake his hand unless he was wearing gloves. Even in some alternate universe where Peter was out of his teens and not psychologically tortured, how could Wade expect him to want someone like him?

  He found two towels that didn’t smell too funky, took a moment to change out of his gross jeans into some casual sweats, and returned to the bathroom, where Peter was still sitting in the tub, his eyes fixed on the door.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Wade blinked, confused. “For what?”

  Peter shrugged. “This. Me.”

  Wade dropped to his knees beside the bath. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I puked.”

  “That was my fault,” Wade said. “I shouldn’t have left you alone. _I’m_ sorry. Really, Peter, I’m so sorry.”

  He could see the warning signs of tears in Peter’s eyes.

  “I’m selfish.”

  Wade frowned. “What’re you talking about?”

  Peter took a deep, shuddering breath and pressed his lips together so tightly they disappeared. He shook his head and screwed his eyes shut, covering his mouth with the palm of his hand as the sobs started.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice thick and wet though the tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “Peter, look at me,” Wade took his chin between his forefinger and thumb. “Crewe made you have sex with those guys. He forced you to be something you didn’t want to be. The only reason I didn’t blow his fucking head off is because I wanted to get you out of there without trouble.”                            

  “Why?” Peter wiped at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  The million-dollar question. Wade felt a flutter of relief that he’d used “for”, not “to” – he must be doing something right at least.

  Wade tucked a loose strand of hair behind Peter’s ear. The teen didn’t seem to have any reaction to his skin; or if he did, he was good at hiding his revulsion. Guess he’d have to be in his line of work. _Previous_ line of work; Wade would run headlong into a burning building before he let this kid go back to that life.

  “Because no-one asks for the shit life throws at them,” he said. “No-one deserves a life like that. And there was something I could do about it.”

  “But . . . what now?”

  Ah, the _two_ -million-dollar question; this kid didn’t mess around. Wade shrugged.

  “Hell if I know, kid,” he smiled ruefully. “Hadn’t got to that bit yet.”

  Peter’s body starting to tremble again. _Uh-oh, bad move, Wade. No jokes, not yet. The kid needs reassurance, not your crappy sense of humour._

  “Do you have any family?”

  Peter shook his head. Wade was torn. He knew what _he_ wanted the kid to do; whether Peter agreed was another matter entirely, and Wade didn’t want to pressure him into accepting his offer out of gratitude or some shit like that.

  “Can’t I stay with you?”

  Peter’s voice was so quiet Wade almost missed the question completely, and had to rerun it through his head to make sure he hadn’t misheard.

  “You . . . you _want_ to stay here? With me?”

  Peter dropped his gaze to the water, his cheeks flushing, He wrapped his arms around his knees and hunched his shoulders. Wade, sensing trouble, cupped his hand against Peter’s cheek, temporarily forgetting to worry about how his mangled palm might feel against the kid’s smooth skin. He looked into his beautiful hazel eyes.

  “Hey, hey,” he hastily backtracked. “Kid, you’re welcome to stay – more than welcome,” he couldn’t supress a sad smile. “Just thought you might want somewhere with a better view.”

  Peter stared and shook his head a fraction from side to side. “You promised you’d keep me safe,” he reminded Wade. “How can you if you’re not there?”

  Wade ruffled his fingers through Peter’s hair and felt his smile evolve into one of genuine pleasure. “Baby boy,” the pet name felt right on his tongue, “you can stay as long as you want.”

  Peter let out a long, shuddering breath and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Wade’s shoulder. Wade cupped the back of the boy’s head with his hand and breathed in the scent of his hair, now laced with the syrupy cola flavouring of the soap.

  He wrapped Peter in the larger of the two towels and pulled the bath plug, the scummy water disappearing down the only-slightly-less-scummy drain. Christ, this place was a dump. Since Vanessa moved out six years ago, he’d just let the place slowly decay around him. He was fairly certain there were things in the kitchen that were harbouring small civilisations, and the carpet in the living room was about ten shades darker than it had been when he’d first moved in.

  Wade wound Peter’s hair into the smaller towel and twisted it into a turban on top of his head. He looked so ridiculously cute and he couldn’t keep himself from laughing. The corner of Peter’s lip twitched when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, the closest thing Wade had seen to a smile on his pretty little face so far.

  He unearthed a spare toothbrush – thankfully still in its packaging – and left Peter to freshen up while Wade considered the best way to deal with the pool of vomit slowly soaking through the bedroom floorboards. Yeesh, who knew such a skinny kid could hold so much puke? He stripped the bed of its sheets and used them to mop up the worst of it, then dumped the whole lot down the garbage chute outside his apartment door. He found an old bucket under the kitchen sink and started filling it with hot water. A creak of a floorboard made him glance over his shoulder; Peter was standing in the doorway, his turban gone – the towel now slung over his shoulders – and his damp hair falling in soft curls down to his elbows.

  Wade added a cup of vinegar to the water – this wasn’t the first time he’d had to mop up such an unsavoury mess from his bedroom floor – and submerged a dishrag in the acidic mixture, wincing as it splashed against a couple of newer scrapes on his skin. Peter watched in silence as Wade soaked the stained wooden boards and wiped away the remnants. Wade then emptied the bucket and went over it again with clean water. There was still a large dark stain on the boards, but at least the smell was gone.

  “No clean sheets, I’m afraid,” Wade said, for the first time feeling a little embarrassed by the state in which he lived. If Peter was going to be sticking around, if Wade was going to actually show him a better standard of living, he seriously needed to do something about it. Making a mental note to check out apartments for sale the next day, he tucked a blanket over the bare mattress, with an old comforter on top to sleep under.

  “Ta da,” he waggled jazz-hands at Peter. “Only the finest at Casa de Wilson.” He rubbed at the corners of his eyes, the first itching of sleep starting to settle there. “Well, I’ll be on the couch, so if you—”

  The look of sudden alarm on Peter’s face made him stop.

  “D’you want me to stay?”

  Peter nodded and Wade shrugged, trying to seem casual but his insides were fizzing like Mentos and Coke. He didn’t have any other pyjamas for Peter to wear, so he gave him a large T-shirt that came to midway down his thighs. He looked so fucking cute he had to look away, tugging off his sweater and shirt. He could feel Peter’s eyes on him as he walked to the bathroom, though he couldn’t be sure if it was from admiration of his muscles or shock at seeing so much of his tattered skin at once. He pretended not to know that Peter was staring and shut himself in the bathroom to take a leak and brush his teeth. Would it be common courtesy to wear a bag over his head tonight, just in case the kid woke up and thought he was bunking with a geriatric avocado? Or a rotting corpse.

  Peter was already curled up under the comforter when he returned to the bedroom, his eyes closed, knees tucked against his chest. Wade flipped the light switch and slipped under the covers as smoothly as he could, not wanting to rouse Peter if he was already asleep. The moment he settled into place, however, he felt Peter shift closer to him.

  “Want a cuddle?”

  He felt Peter nod and was stunned for a moment. It had been so long – God, _so_ long – since he’d held someone. Not sex – you could buy that shit from any consenting hooker in this city – but the stuff in between; the little stuff that meant so much more. Wade had never pegged himself as particularly sentimental, but he’d missed that part of physical contact so much it was like an ache. He rolled over onto his back and lifted one arm, allowing Peter access to snuggle up against him – his cheek resting against Wade’s chest, his hand resting just above his navel.

  “So . . . it really doesn’t bother you?” Wade asked.

  “Mm?” Peter sounded halfway to sleep.

  “My skin.”

  Peter’s fist clenched against Wade’s sternum and he shook his head slowly, yawning with a tiny squeak. This kid was just too cute. No, scratch that – this kid was fucking _adorable_.

  “Why not?” He wasn’t fishing for compliments – he was genuinely curious. Most people acted like he had open bubonic sores as opposed to long-healed scarring, but Peter hadn’t said a word.

  Peter shrugged. “Dunno. It just . . . doesn’t matter.”

  Wade tightened his arm around the skinny boy and planted a soft (innocent, he promised) kiss on the top of his head.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Mm-hm,” Peter sighed. “Thank you, Wade.”

  “No worries, sweetheart.”

  “No, I mean it,” Peter looked up and Wade met his beautiful eyes, copper-bright in the light of the outside streetlamp. “Thank you.”

  Wade smiled, his chest filling with a warm affection he could barely remember feeling before. Not since Vanessa, which was either good that his heart was slowly unfreezing again, or bad that it was only thawing for this beautiful teenage boy. Either way, he suspected the worst – that there was nothing he was going to be able to do about it.

  “You’re welcome, Peter.”    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that the next chapter will be much longer than the last two. Next time, Wade and Peter go apartment hunting, and Wade introduces Peter to the wonders of IKEA. 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this chapter. This kinda felt like the in-between section, and the next three chapters will have a lot more going on.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Hopeful Romantic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys - I'm so sorry this has taken SO LONG for me to finish. Life kept getting in the way but I'm back on track and have decided to extend the chapter number as I've just got so many things I want to write for this story. Hope you enjoy chapter three.
> 
> Chapter title song by This Century.

Peter woke to the smell of burning Pop-Tarts.

  In the harsh light of day, Wade’s bedroom looked like Hell, and smelled worse, but despite this he felt infinitely less terrified than he had last night. That ever-present knot in the pit of his stomach reminded him that he wasn’t out of the woods yet – the panic could still set in at a moment’s notice – but his heart-rate felt normal, at least.

  He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. It was quite impressive, really, how much of a dive Wade’s apartment was. Aside from the rickety bed and an ancient set of drawers, there was no other furniture in the room. The majority of the floor-space taken up by cardboard boxes, crumpled clothes and take-out containers; the smell of old food was pungent, mixed with the acrid stink of vinegar.

  He couldn’t remember exactly what had happened between waking and the moment he’d heard Wade’s voice. He didn’t know if it was normal for panic attacks, but he could very seldom remember details of his experiences once the black closed in. He recalled feeling Wade’s arms around him, being rocked from side to side, and the next thing he knew he was in a bath that looked like it was used to dissolve bodies in.

  It was strange. Everything about Wade screamed that Peter should be afraid of him – his appearance, his job, even his living accommodation – but over the simmering unease was now this layer of . . . could he call it “security”? Maybe that wasn’t the right word. It was more like a tentative sense of calm, fluttering between his heart and stomach like a bird, ready to fly away at a moment’s notice.

  He thought back to when he’d been sitting in the bath and Wade had been washing away his sweat, puke and fear with more tenderness than he’d felt from any man that had touched his body since he was fourteen. In the throes of his panic, he’d convinced himself so thoroughly that Wade was going to hurt him, that he knew what sort of person he was, that the delicacy with which he treated him had brought him to tears. Tears of relief, guilt, and weariness. It was exhausting being so afraid every waking moment; every time he felt a man’s hands on his body, anticipating the pain that inevitably followed. When Wade had touched him, he’d felt only care and softness, in stark contrast with the roughness of his skin. When he’d held his hand in the club, when he’d carried him from the subway and dressed him for bed, when he’d held him close and quieted the fear that screamed through his veins, when he’d bathed him – his fingers never once reaching down further than his stomach – and when he’d wrapped a protective arm around him and soothed him to sleep. In those big, strong arms, Peter had felt almost safe.

  He burned with guilt at how he’d profiled Wade; how he’d been so sure that Wade was a bad guy who wanted nothing more than to hurt him. He’d seen nothing but what everyone else must assume about him – that he was big, bad and dangerous. That he was everything Crewe had made him fear about the outside world. The truth couldn’t be more different.

  “God damn it,” he heard Wade curse. Peter ran his fingers through his hair, which he knew must look like a rats’ nest, and swung his bare legs out of bed. Picking his way carefully through the bombsite of the bedroom floor, he followed the smell of scorched sugar to the cupboard-sized kitchen, where a topless Wade was staring at two blackened Pop-Tarts on a plate as though he couldn’t believe they would betray him like this. The pile of overstuffed garbage bags that had been stacked by the door had since been removed, as had the frankly terrifying array of guns, knives and what Peter swore was a bazooka that had been scattered across the living room.

  Sensing Peter’s presence, Wade turned and grinned at him.

  “Morning, sleeping beauty,” he said. “How d’you like your breakfast – charcoaled or straight outta Pompeii?” He tossed the charred pastries in the bin (no bag) and brushed off his hands.

  “Morning,” Peter mumbled, rubbing some lingering sleep-grit out of his eyes.

  “How’re you feeling?” Wade pulled a new set of Tarts (Hot Fudge Sundae flavour) from their foil packaging and slid them into the toaster slats.

  “Fine,” Peter said automatically. It wasn’t exactly a lie – he was _more_ fine than he’d been in a long while, but his stomach still felt full of snakes. Now in full view, in proper light, he was struck by just how much in good shape Wade was. There was no other way of putting it – the guy was _cut_. Beneath the mesh of scars, his muscles stood out like they were carved from stone. This guy could restrain or subdue him easier than breathing, but somehow Peter still didn’t feel as scared as he should have. Perhaps it was because of everything Wade had done for him since last night, or perhaps it was because he was wearing Hello Kitty ankle socks.

  “So,” Wade forcibly ejected the Pop-Tarts, now only lightly toasted, and passed one to Peter, “busy day today.”

  Peter nibbled the icing off the edge of his pastry. Crewe had always kept his sugar and fat intake to an absolute minimum, so it had been a good few years since he’d tasted one. He closed his eyes and mmm’d his pleasure as the saccharine sweetness coated his tongue. When he opened them again, Wade’s face was fixed in an expression of forced calm, and Peter felt bad. Jay had once told him that he had “resting sex face” and often looked halfway to orgasm even during the most banal of activities (like eating sugar, it seemed). Peter supposed it was a result of three years of having to appear in an almost constant state of sexual arousal for other men’s pleasure.

  He still wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure if Wade was attracted to him. When Peter had been dancing in the club, he would have said a resounding yes, the way Wade’s eyes raked over his body in that hot, dark way all guys did. But the moment he’d learned Peter wasn’t a girl, and especially after discovering his age, it had changed completely – save for that brief moment last night before he’d practically sprinted out of the room to find towels. That same Look had been in his eyes again, like he wanted him. Peter could hazard a guess that Wade was doing some serious internal struggling. He knew guys found him attractive – it was his job to make them – but Wade seemed to have morals that the others didn’t. He didn’t want to touch Peter in that way, and Peter was grateful. It was nice to imagine his body was his own, even just for a while. Wade would probably still succumb to the desire that most men did and decide he wanted Peter after all, and Peter would give himself to him. He had to – it was what he was for.     

  “Sorry,” he said, taking another bite of Tart and making a conscious effort to keep his face straight. “Busy day?”

  “Yeah,” Wade blinked and cleared his throat. “You still want to get those curly locks chopped?”

  Peter automatically raised his fingers to tug at a handful of his hair. He hated it. If it weren’t for the fear of Crewe’s reaction, he would have hacked it off a long time ago – with a butter-knife if that’s all he’d had to hand. To him, it symbolised everything Crewe had made him into, everything he’d forced him to do, everything he now felt he was and wished to God he wasn’t. He nodded.

  “Cool,” Wade shoved the last bite of his Tart into his mouth and chewed pensively. “So I’m thinking,” he said around his mouthful, “hair, breakfast, apartment.”

  “Breakfast?” Peter glanced down at the pastry he was holding, half-eaten.

  “Oh, this is just a pre-breakfast snack,” Wade said. “Thought you’d need a little sugar boost after last night.”

  Peter blushed; he hated that Wade had seen him like that. His ears burned at the thought of the stain he’d left on the bedroom floor.  

  “There’s a diner a couple blocks away that’ll make pretty much whatever you want for $10. Chimichangas for breakfast, y’all!”

  Peter had no idea what chimichangas were.

  “Then what’re we doing to the apartment?” he asked.

  “Flooding it, burning it,” Wade shrugged. “Either way, we’re leaving it. There’re stains on this floor that’re older than you, kid.”

 

*           *           *

 

Apparently, chimichangas were deep-fried burritos, and Wade loved them so much they could almost be classed as a fetish. Peter watched, amazed, as the waitress – who seemed to know Wade’s order by rote – brought over enough wraps to feed a starving family of five, followed by the pancake short stack Peter had asked for. Wade had insisted he add a side of bacon to go with the maple syrup, and after one bite, Peter was wondering just how many more glorious surprises the outside world could hold for him.

  It wasn’t like he hadn’t set foot outside the club in all the years he’d been there, but the freedom of his excursions had been decidedly restricted. A lot of the time, he’d been firmly tethered to Crewe’s side as a party favour for a client or friend, and had only seen the city through the tinted windows of his master’s car. It had all seemed so big and frightening and starkly beautiful. Once, shortly after his sixteenth birthday, he’d snuck out with Ellen and Jay while Crewe was out of town. Forgoing the bars and clubs that lined the street, Ellen had taken him to a multiplex entertainment centre, where they’d seen a movie and played in the arcade until their wallets ran dry. It was the first time in a long while that he’d had fun – real fun, like he could remember before the accident that had killed his aunt and uncle.

  Crewe had found out afterwards, of course, and made Peter suffer for it, but he could honestly say it had been worth the bruising. His stomach squirmed at the memory, and he raised a hand to tug at his hair, only to come up empty. He picked up the mirrored napkin holder for the millionth time and stared at his reflection.

  Despite his anticipation to see it gone, he’d still felt anxious when the barber had brandished his scissors. His body started shaking and he felt sick. Wade had told him he was free, that he never had to return to Crewe’s control, but there was still that nagging voice at the back of his mind that feared the reprisals such an act of defiance would incur.

  “Hey,” Wade’s soft voice had come from his left, where he was perched on a neighbouring barber stool. He was wearing a baseball cap under the hood of his sweater, his face in shadow, but Peter could still catch the gleam in his deep blue eyes. “It’s okay, kid. You can do this. I’m right here.”

  Peter had stuck out his hand towards Wade for comfort, and Wade had taken it without question. He’d gently stroked his leather-gloved fingers over Peter’s trembling palm while the barber cut away at Peter’s hair. He’d watched with unease and fascination as the long locks fell to the floor, his neck and jawline coming into clearer view with each snip. It was as though a portion of his life in servitude was falling away, revealing a hopeful resurgence of the boy he’d been those three years ago.

  As though he was Peter Parker again.

 

*           *           *

 

Wade was in Hell.

  Okay, perhaps that was a little dramatic, especially with the decidedly heavenly pile of yum stacked in front of him, but the thoughts he was having in regard to Peter’s new look could certainly be classed as sinful.

  His brain didn’t seem to be able to – or just didn’t want to – accept that this kid was strictly off limits. He’d taken him out from under Crewe for a reason – so he could lead a somewhat normal life, and that wasn’t going to be possible if he had a thirty-three-year-old disfigured mercenary crushing on him.

  It wasn’t a new experience for Wade to lust after a younger man, but this was the first time he’d felt wrong in doing so. Truthfully, all the guys he’d previously pursued had been over twenty-one, so that was probably a big part of it. This was prior to his accident, of course – the people he’d been with since then had only allowed him to touch them because he paid them.

  He felt another stab of guilt in the pit of his stomach when he thought back to the times he’d relied on prostitutes, male and female and everything in between, to sate his desires. He’d told himself that it was alright if they were consenting adults, but since meeting Peter, he wasn’t so sure. He’d been ready to kill Crewe for forcing Peter to do those kinds of things – but how was he any different? How many of those sex workers would have gone near him with a twenty-foot pole in any other situation? Anyone could say “yes”, but how many actually meant it?

  “Wade?”

  He looked up from his plate. With his hair cut short, Peter’s face had taken on an androgynous, ethereal quality. Without the distraction of his wavy curls, his big, dark eyes seemed bolder, the line of his jaw sharper, his perfect mouth parted in concern at the way Wade was gripping his fork like he was trying to strangle the life out of it. His eyes and lips were pretty enough to still be considered feminine, but his jawline and chin were definitely those of a young man (as much as gender stereotypes went, anyway). He looked older, somehow, and this did nothing for Wade’s internal conflict.

  Wade wasn’t a rapist; not like those guys in the club. Not like Francis. He wasn’t.

  Right?

  He slapped a broad smile on his face. “How’re your ‘cakes?” he asked Peter, who blinked at his sudden change in expression.

  “Yeah, good,” he said. “Yummy.”

  He blushed at the childish word and shovelled a large hunk of bacon into his mouth. Too large; he pressed his fingertips to his lips as he fought to keep them together, and Wade suppressed a sigh – an actual fucking _sigh_ – at how goddamn cute he was.

  Wade ended up consuming his chimichangas _and_ the last pancake on Peter’s plate, as Peter was clearly not used to so much sugar, or so much food, period. He paid the bill, tipping Gina an extra $10 – the girl always knew when to keep the burritos coming – and led Peter out into the busy street. He felt Peter press closer to him as the crowd bustled alongside them, and held out his hand. Peter gratefully slipped his fingers – long and slim, like a pianist’s – through Wade’s and he felt a slow spread of warmth at the younger guy’s palm against his own. Nobody gave them a second look as they walked down the street – most people averted their eyes from Wade’s morphed skin, anyway – until they passed a gaggle of girls outside an entrance to the subway. They stared pointedly at Peter, giggling in a blatantly flirtatious manner. Wade grinned and nudged the kid, nodding towards the cluster of excited hormones making eyes at him.

  Peter blushed and looked away, tightening his grip on Wade’s hand. One of the girls – a pretty redhead – noticed their entwined fingers and gave what appeared to be an approving, if slightly disappointed, shrug. Wade smirked and she grinned back. It was a nice change to have someone not struck with horror at his appearance, but then he had found the newer generation – the Tumblr kids – were a little more accepting.

  “One haircut and you’re already a babe magnet,” Wade said to Peter once they were out of earshot.

  “I’d rather not be,” Peter said. “Girls are . . .”

  He trailed off and Wade laughed. “Yeah, that they are.”

  It occurred to him that he had no idea what sexual orientation Peter actually was, or at least what he’d been before he’d fallen in with Crewe. Wade imagined that the whole idea of sex was something it could take him years to view as anything other than an ordeal or punishment.

  “So, hair – check, breakfast – check,” Wade said, holding up his fingers in turn. “Just one more thing then we can do whatever you want for the rest of the day.”

  “The apartment?”

  “Bingo,” Wade pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket with an address scrawled across it. “Called in a favour with a friend of mine. Well, I say _friend_ – she paid me to accidentally decapitate her husband.”

  “ _Accidentally_?” Peter’s eyes were like saucers.

  “Happens more often than you’d think,” Wade grinned. “Anyway, she owns a lot of real estate in the city and agreed to rent out one of her smaller units.”

  “Can we go there now?”

  “Course,” Wade said. “It’s standing empty right now, but we—” A metaphorical lightbulb illuminated above his head. “Say, kid – you ever been to IKEA?”

 

*           *           *

 

“ _Long ago in days of yore, it all began with a god named Thor_ ,” Wade sang cheerily as he led Peter through the big glass doors. “ _There were Vikings and boats and some plans for a furniture store_!”

  People were staring at them, but Peter didn’t seem embarrassed, and Wade certainly wasn’t. Where else could you sing a song devoted to IKEA if not in the motherland of glorious Swedish flat-pack itself?

  “ _IKEA_!” he slung an arm round Peter’s shoulders. “ _Just some oak and some pine and a handful of Norsemen. IKEA! Selling furniture for college kids and divorced men_!”

  Peter stopped to read the floorplan posted at the foot of the escalator. “So do we start in the marketplace?”

  “Of course not,” Wade took an order sheet and a handful of tiny pencils from a nearby stand, stowing them away in his jacket pocket. “First we brave the trail of the showrooms, then we gorge ourselves on meatballs, and _then_ we hit the marketplace.”

  “Meatballs?”

  Wade grinned and ruffled Peter’s new hair. “In the immortal words of Jonathan Coulton: _IKEA – meatballs, tasty_.”

  “Oh – you’ve not just been making that song up?”

  Wade laughed and smacked what he hoped came across as just a friendly kiss on the top of Peter’s head, admiring the pretty blush that spread across the teen’s cheeks.

  “So,” he clapped his hands together. “We’ll sort all the big stuff first. Couch, chairs, beds, etcetera. The kitchen and bathrooms are already furnished so it’s just the comfy stuff we need to get. Oh, and a fuck-off huge TV.”

  A nearby woman with a pre-teen kid gave him a reproachful look, but Wade ignored her. Kid probably knew worse language already.

  As soon as they stepped through the doors into the winding labyrinth of premade bedrooms, living-rooms and kitchens, Peter became more animated than Wade had seen him thus far. He’d yet to crack a proper smile, but his eyes were almost sparkling as he darted from display to display.

  “Can’t we just live here?” he said as they admired a light fixture that was the spawn of a dandelion clock and the Death Star. Wade discreetly added it to the order list when Peter turned to investigate a trio of decorative ceramic cacti. He was determined to purchase anything Peter showed an interest in to surprise him with once the apartment was fully assembled. He shook his head in answer to Peter’s question.  

  “No good, I tried. Turns out wardrobes aren’t as fool-proof a hiding place as Mr. Tumnus would have us believe.”

  They chose a selection of furniture for the living room and bedrooms, which Wade arranged to be delivered the next day, and headed towards the restaurant. Wade ordered two plates piled high with meatballs, mashed potatoes, peas, creamy gravy and a dollop of lingonberry jam on each.

  “Jam. With meatballs.” Peter said dubiously as Wade carried their meals over towards the cashier.

  “Don’t knock it yet, kid,” he said, adding two thick slices of Daim cake to their tray. “Stranger things have happened at sea.”

  They chose seats by the floor-to-ceiling window and Wade watched in anticipation as Peter loaded his fork with meat, potatoes and – after a moment’s hesitation – jam. The dawning look of astonishment as the fruity-sweet, meaty combo hit his tongue was a joy to behold.

  “See?” Wade shovelled a large forkful into his own mouth. “Just wait ‘til you try the cake.”

 

*           *           *

 

Before today, Wade couldn’t say he’d felt the need to possess coat-hooks shaped like tiny chairs, but after seeing the fascination with which Peter looked at them, he realised they were exactly what his life had been missing. He dropped them into the cart beside the peach-scented candles, decorative hourglass and a set of four plush-toy cupcakes.

  They weaved through the crowded marketplace, Peter a little way ahead, and Wade watched as an easy expression took over his features, the tension starting to melt away from his posture. It was remarkable how just sixteen hours away from Crewe and that hellish club could make such a difference.

  Just then, a tall, bald man pushed by a little too closely, his torso knocking into Peter’s shoulder as he passed. He laid a hand on Peter’s arm and muttered a brief apology, his passive expression switching to shock when Peter jerked away with a choked gasp and glanced around desperately for Wade, who was at his side in a heartbeat. His brutish appearance clearly panicked Peter’s unwitting assailant.

  “Hey man, I didn’t mean to—” the guy raised his hands, trying to absolve himself of whatever he might be accused of doing.

  “It’s fine,” Wade said, stepping between the two of them, shielding Peter from view as the teen’s body began to shake uncontrollably. He was clearly far from “fine”, but it was enough to send the stranger on his way.

  Peter was breathing way too fast, his dilated pupils practically eclipsing the hazel of his eyes. Wade pulled him away to the side of the room, out of the bustling crowd, his fingers cupping the back of his head in an effort to steady him.

  There was a disabled-only bathroom cubicle to their right and, ignoring the accusatory look he received from a passing worker, he bundled Peter through the door and locked it behind them. Peter just had time to drop to his knees before the contents of his stomach was expelled spectacularly into the toilet bowl. Wade supported his clammy forehead with one palm, the other massaging his back, murmuring soothing noises. He waited until Peter had stopped coughing, then wiped his lips with a large wad of toilet roll.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter panted, his face ashen.

  “It’s okay,” Wade ran his fingers through Peter’s hair. “Did you know him?”

  Peter slowly shook his head. “This guy used to come to the club. He was rougher than most of the others. He looked a bit like him.”

  Wade thought of the man’s appearance – tall, bald, well-built – and his mind revolved round to the detestable, smirking face of Francis fucking Freeman. It could just be a coincidence, but Francis had boasted about his time spent with Peter just last night. It would make sense that he’d enjoy roughing up such a pretty little thing.      

   Wade wrapped his arms around Peter’s trembling shoulders, pulling him close, and Peter nuzzled against him, his arms snaking under Wade’s hoodie and around his waist. They stayed like that for a minute, until Peter’s breathing evened out and Wade’s heart had melted into a puddle inside his chest. How was this kid having such a powerful effect on him after barely a day? He didn’t even know his surname and yet he knew instinctively that he would defend him to his last breath. A small, evil part of his brain taunted him with the thought that maybe this is what was meant by “love at first sight”, but he pushed it aside. That was ridiculous. The kid was wounded, vulnerable, and he had strong protective instincts, that was all. He also had a desire to seek out every motherfucker who had laid hands on him and shove a cactus up their ass. Two for Francis.

  The disapproving worker who had watched them escape into the cubicle was still standing outside when they emerged, her reprimand dying on her lips as she caught sight of Peter’s face. He’d stopped shaking but was still very pale. Wade pushed past her and back to their cart, which was still parked where they’d left it beside the display of novelty coat-hooks.

  “Do you want to leave?” Wade asked Peter, who shook his head.

  “I just . . . can I . . .?” his gaze dropped to Wade’s hand, tucked inside the pocket of his jeans. Wade smiled and, not caring about what anyone would think, entwined his fingers through Peter’s.        

 

*           *           *

 

Peter sat cross-legged on the filthy couch in Wade’s living-room, unable to keep his hands off the slim black cell phone Wade had just purchased for him. It had cost $1,150, but Wade had just handed over the money like it was small change. Peter didn’t know the average salary for a mercenary (hitman, whatever Wade was), but the guy seemed to be _loaded_. It begged the question of why he chose to live in squalor like this. Casting an eye over the questionable stains marking the couch, Peter had to admit he was relieved they would be relocating. Grateful couldn’t begin to describe how he felt for everything Wade had done for him, but he may have found living in this apartment something of a challenge. For all the horrors of Crewe’s club, his living accommodation was clean, at least. On the days when Crewe demanded his services for himself, his lifestyle could almost be described as lavish. Crewe’s carnal interest in him had always waxed and waned with a startling volatility, but when he wanted Peter, he did so at his own place, not the club sex rooms. An unwelcome memory invaded Peter’s mind – lying on his back on Crewe’s expensive sheets, wrists bound to the headboard, retching against the ball-gag, Crewe’s thick fingers flexed threateningly around his throat—

  “You okay?”

  He jumped and looked up at Wade, watching him from the kitchen doorway. He glanced at the phone in Peter’s hands. “Like it?”

  Peter nodded. “Thank you so much.”

  Wade smiled. “Your friend said she’d kick my ass if I didn’t get you one.”

  Peter blushed – Ellen was certainly a force of nature.

  “I was gonna get you one, anyway,” Wade added. “What’s a post-Millennial without an overpriced smartphone, eh?” He strode to across the room and sat down on the sagging couch by Peter’s outstretched feet. “So I had a thought,” he said. “Since I’m fairly certain this couch alone is harbouring diseases known only to the Russian government, I reckon we should kick it in a hotel tonight.”

  “A hotel?”

  “Yeah – the furniture’s not being delivered ‘til two tomorrow, so we can do whatever you want in the morning then have an epic construction afternoon.”

  Peter tried not to feel like a toddler Wade was trying to keep entertained. He wished he could gauge Wade’s feelings towards him with more clarity. For the most part, he was still treating him like Little Orphan Annie, but there was still that flickering shade of lust in his dark eyes. It was a little disconcerting, not knowing the limits to which Wade’s kindness would stretch before he expected something in return. He needed to know so, if needed, he could enter that state of mental detachment that had kept him sane through the past four years. Bracing himself for what could follow, he decided to test Wade’s resolve. He set his new phone on the coffee table and edged a little closer to Wade on the couch. He rested his fingers on Wade’s thigh and dropped his voice into a seductive purr.

  “Whatever I want?”

  He watched with ingrained satisfaction as Wade’s eyes widened, his pupils flaring, his entire body tensing like a steel spring. There it was – that Look. He’d seen it a million times before. Wade didn’t move as Peter drew nearer, hooking his left forefinger over the neckline of Wade’s T-shirt and tugging it lower. He leaned in and pressed his lips against the mottled skin at Wade’s collar. It was warm and bumpy, the scars stiff like sinew.

  “Stop,” Wade’s voice was quiet, barely audible, but Peter wasn’t ready to stop. He wanted to test him; he had to know for certain. He cupped his other hand around the firm bulge in Wade’s jeans, over that tell-tale hardness.

  Wade sprang from his position and shoved Peter onto his back, pinning his arms either side of his head on the couch. He could see Wade’s chest heaving as he tried to control his breathing. The Look was still etched onto his features, hidden beneath a veil of anger. They stayed in that position for a moment, then, without another word, Wade got to his feet and left the apartment, closing the door behind him with a firm _click_. Peter couldn’t hear footsteps, so he presumed he was simply standing on the other side. His heart was hammering and his stomach felt full of snakes. Had he just seriously pissed Wade off? Why had he done it? To see if Wade’s morals could stand the strength of lust?

  Or maybe just because he wanted to.

 

*           *           *

 

Wade closed the door behind him and leaned heavily against it, his body sinking down the wood until his ass hit the floor. He splayed his fingers across his face and let out all his breath into his palms.

  That had been _way_ too close.

  The touch of Peter’s lips on his skin had set a fire blazing in his soul; he could feel it still smouldering beneath the weight of shame settled in his gut. He was angry, too – the kid had no right to do that, when he must know how much Wade was trying to resist touching him. Was he simply messing around, seeing how far he could take it before Wade snapped, or had he simply been trying to pay Wade back? He didn’t entertain for a moment the notion that he genuinely wanted Wade to touch him. That was just fucking stupid.

  He couldn’t remember wanting anything or anyone more than he wanted Peter at that precise moment. He was so exquisite, so pure – despite everything he’d been through – that Wade felt twice as ugly in comparison. He had seriously not thought this through.

  Taking a deep breath, he clambered to his feet and yanked open the door. Peter was still sitting on the couch, his eyes darting upwards from his lap as Wade entered. Closing the door, he leaned against it and looked anywhere but at Peter’s face – that would do nothing for his resolve.

  “I think we need to talk,” he said. “Before we go any further with this. Probably should’ve done it already, but I’m such a—”

  “Please,” Peter burst out. His hands were clenched against his chest, the knuckles white. “Please don’t send me back. I’ll do whatever you—”

  “Hey,” Wade said firmly. He wanted to rush over and put his arms round the kid, but he didn’t trust himself right now. Peter looked up, eyes fearful. “I will _never_ send you back to that hellhole, got it? But this is what I want to talk about – I want you to stop doing what you think I want you to do.”

  Peter didn’t speak so he continued.

  “This isn’t easy for me, alright? I promised I wouldn’t hurt you, and I won’t, but you can’t just pull shit like that outta nowhere. You’re a minor and it’s not okay, especially not when you look like. . . well, _that_.”

  Peter looked upset. “You think I’m ugly?”

  “What? No!” Wade ran a hand over his face. “Christ knows, you make Kit Harington look like Buddy Hackett. If you _were_ , we’d have less of a problem. What I meant is I don’t want to you to think you owe me anything for taking you out of there, or anything that I do from now on. I told you last night, didn’t I? I’m doing this because I could afford to, not because I wanted a plaything. I couldn’t just let that slimy bastard do that to you anymore.”

  “But why me?”

  “Jesus, kid, you need me to spell it out for you? Because you’re the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen, and you were sobbing in my fucking arms. I know I look like Frankenstein’s monster but my heart’s not fossilised yet.”

  There was a moment of silence, in which Wade would hear Peter’s fingernails scratching at the rough fabric of the couch.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not,” Peter sighed. “I knew you weren’t like them, but I still wanted to . . . check.”

  Wade gave an amused snort. “Did I pass?”

  Peter looked at him, his soft eyes narrowed in contemplation.

  “A-minus.”

  Wade shrugged. “Fair. You’ll have to tutor me in the rest.”

  Then Peter did something that made the floor drop out of his stomach.

  He smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - Peter and Wade settle into domestic life, but Peter's nightmares won't go away. Wade decides that Peter needs some friends his own age, and bumps into a familiar face. . .


	4. Good To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title song by Marianas Trench.

 

The sunlight streamed through a gap in the curtains and across Wade’s face. Glowering in his sleep, he shifted an inch towards the centre of the bed, unconsciously re-positioning his arms around the sleeping teenager who had appeared sometime in the early hours. Peter pushed away from Wade’s heated body and sought a cooler spot on his pillow. Wade’s eyes opened a fraction and he smiled, running his fingers lightly over the teen’s rumpled hair, and fell back into an easy doze.

  It had been just over a fortnight since they’d moved into their new apartment, and Wade was beginning to wonder how he’d lived for the last eight years in such filth and emotional turmoil. The short answer was: he hadn’t been living at all – just ticking along like a clockwork solider, never seeing past the end of his own nose.

  The new apartment was light and airy, the walls painted a cool shade of off-white (not that Wade knew what the hell “off-white” was – he’d just found the paint cans in a cupboard while they were unpacking). The windows were tall and overlooked a long stretch of diners and delis, and a Krispy Kreme that Peter had requested they visit every other day. The first time he’d tasted the donuts, Peter’s face had been practically orgasmic. Wade couldn’t blame him, though he did have to sit a little awkwardly for the next ten minutes until he’d been able to convince his dick that fun times were _not_ imminent.

  Since the conversation back in Wade’s old apartment (which was now standing abandoned as storage space for his multitude of weapons), he and Peter had reached an understanding – Peter didn’t perform any seductive spot checks on Wade, and Wade didn’t pin Peter against the wall and ravish him every twenty seconds (for his part, this part of the agreement was unspoken).

  He’d kept himself distracted from these impulses by filling the days with movie marathons, trips out, and basically anything else Peter wanted to do. So far, they’d worked through the first three seasons of _Brooklyn Nine-Nine,_ completed the extended _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, every _Star Wars_ movie Peter hadn’t already seen (even the prequels – it hurt Wade’s soul, but Peter needed the full treatment), and Peter was nearing the end of _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ (Wade refused to let him watch the films until he’d read the books). It made his heart swell – shrivelled husk as it was – to see Peter’s reactions to all the things he should have been enjoying all his teenage life.

  That night they’d spent together in the hotel following the altercation had been awkward, to say the least, especially as – true to Wade Wilson Luck form – the only room available offered only one bed.

  _For fuck’s sake,_ Wade had thought. _Of all the fan-fic clichéd bullshit . . ._

  They’d slept at far opposite sides of the bed in the beginning. Wade had been tempted to construct a pillow barricade between them to lessen the chances of him succumbing to the howling beast of lust scrabbling to be let out, but there weren’t enough available. Besides, he didn’t want Peter to feel too guilty about what he’d done – just guilty enough that he didn’t try it again. He could feel his willpower slowly chipping away – one more blow and it would shatter into a thousand pieces. That was his problem, not Peter’s, but the kid didn’t exactly help matters.

  The Lord (or Satan) had decided to test him once again, however, at half-five in the morning. He’d woken to the sound of Peter gasping and whimpering in his sleep, so he’d sat up and switched on the bedside light. Peter was curled into a ball at the edge of the bed, his arms twitching and his face screwed up against whatever horrors he was seeing. Wade reached out and gently placed a hand on his trembling shoulder. Peter lashed out like he was being attacked and jerked awake, fighting for breath, his forehead shiny with sweat.

  “Come here,” Wade said softly.

  Ignoring the alarm-bells screeching that this could only lead to trouble, he’d wrapped his arms around Peter’s body and pulled him close. Peter didn’t seem to want to speak, so he just allowed Wade to cradle him and stroke his hair until he dropped off to sleep again. Wade turned out the lamp, the room now tinted with watery dawn sunlight, and settled back against the pillows. When he’d woken three hours later, he still had his arms entwined around Peter, his nose buried against his crown, breathing in the sweet scent of his hair. At that moment, he was struck by a long-forgotten desire (so long-forgotten he didn’t think he’d ever felt it before), not to fuck Peter or even kiss him, but to simply keep holding him. To show him that physical attention could be pure and soft, even from a twisted monster like him.

  Peter hadn’t spoken about his nightmare the next morning, and Wade hadn’t pressed him about it. They’d set out for the new apartment, Peter’s legs jiggling in anticipation the entire subway journey. The building was by no means upmarket, but it was classier and less intimidating than Wade’s old place. They joined young families and gossiping college students in the elevator as they soared upwards to number 907. Like yesterday, Wade caught some of the girls eyeing Peter, but he just kept his gaze fixed on the elevator doors. He hoped the kid would soon get used to the attention and it wouldn’t freak him out so much. Wade had had a brief flashback to the days when people used to eye _him_ up, back before his skin turned to putty; God, he’d been hot back then.

  He’d watched Peter’s expression as they’d entered the apartment, a grin spreading across his face as the kid stared, wide-eyed, at the space around them. In comparison to Wade’s old apartment, it was like stepping from the third circle of Hell to the gates of St. Peter. The floor was newly-laid pale wood, the wall-paint immaculate, and there were shutters and gauze curtains hanging from every window.

  Peter ran across the room and stared down at the street below while Wade shut the door and pocketed the key. He made a mental note to get a duplicate cut for Peter and joined him at the window.

  “Like it?”

  Peter nodded enthusiastically and stabbed his finger against the glass. “There’s a Krispy Kreme!”

  “Never had one?”

  “My uncle took me once when I was a kid. My seventh birthday. I ate five Chocolate Dreamcakes and threw up in Aunt May’s flowerbed.”

  Wade grinned. It was the most enthusiastic thing he’d heard Peter say up ‘til then, and the first mention of any family he might have. “Good times.”

  “Yeah,” Peter’s eyes dropped, a look of sad nostalgia settling on his face. “They were.”

  Wade looked at him. “What happened?”

  Peter sighed. “Car crash. Just before I . . . before . . .”

  “I get it,” Wade said; he didn’t want Peter to have to say Crewe’s name. “I’m sorry.”

  “He said they were . . . it was a heavy crash . . . they didn’t . . .”

  _Suffer_ , Wade finished in his head and squeezed Peter’s shoulder. “Well, we can get as many Dreamcakes as you want ‘til you throw up again,” he said. “And caramel glazed and Reese’s Peanut Butter Kremes and whatever you can squeeze into that little tummy of yours.” He poked the front of Peter’s shirt and Peter smiled, his eyes still glistening.

  When the IKEA delivery guys arrived, he’d looked amazed by the sheer number of boxes they brought in one at a time.

  “We have to _build_ it?” he asked, dumbfounded.   

  “Sure,” Wade said. “That’s what ‘flat-pack’ means, baby boy!”

  The ringleader – a sullen-looking girl with short dark hair and black lipstick – held out the clipboard with one hand, the other fixed to her phone, in which she was deeply engrossed.

  “Do you need any help with assembly, sir?” she asked in a bored, deadpan voice.

  “My, what a sweet gesture,” Wade said, signing the form and increasing the joviality in his tone in comparison to her disinterest. She shot him an irritated look and he laughed. “Nah, we’re okay, thanks, Twilight Sparkle. It’s his first time and I want it to be special.” He couldn’t help the innuendo and enjoyed the pretty blush it ignited on Peter’s cheeks.

  The girl swung her gaze to Peter, then back to Wade. “Have fun,” she said, sarcasm dripping from every letter.

  “Oh, we will,” Wade said. “Have a glitter-tastic rest of your day too, sugar-plum!”

  Rolling her eyes so hard it had to hurt, she turned and followed the lifting guys out the door, slamming it behind her.

  “She was scary.”

  “Her girlfriend’s adorable,” Wade said. “I’ve seen them out together – like a human Pinkie Pie. Now,” he faced the landscape of parcels now littering the floor, “to battle stations.”

  It had taken them a little under five hours to assemble all the main furniture. Wade was pleased that Peter wanted to have more of an input into the assembly of the pieces than just holding parts upright for Wade to screw together. He watched with surprised interest as Peter gave the instructions to each piece a once-over, and then proceeded to construct the chair or side-table without so much as another glance. He was clearly an intelligent, methodically-minded kid.

  It had got Wade to wondering as to whether he ought to do something about Peter’s education, as he would have been just starting high school when he was enlisted by Crewe and had doubtfully been allowed to continue his studies during his enslavement. It might raise too many questions if he were to enrol in an actual high school, especially at seventeen, but maybe a home tutor would do. Then there was the social side of it – a kid as bright and cute as Peter would have been well-liked.

  He’d asked Peter which school he’d been attending as they were jointly assembling the bed-frame in the smaller room.

  “Midtown,” he’d replied. “Been there six months before the crash.”

  “So you’re a Queens kid?”

  Peter nodded, securing a screw with a look of intense concentration. “My aunt and uncle lived in Forest Hills.”

  “Did you . . .?” Wade thought how best to phrase the question. “If you wanted to go back—”

  “No,” Peter said sharply, then looked up, embarrassed. “Sorry, it’s just . . . It won’t be their house anymore.”

  “I get it,” Wade said. He’d slowly let the place he’d shared with Vanessa decay around him until there was nothing left to remind him of her.

  They finished the bed-frame in silence and sat back to admire their work. Peter looked as chuffed as if he’d hand-crafted it from three-hundred-year-old oak. The sky was starting to glow with late-afternoon light, reflecting off the surrounding buildings and winking through their window. They heaved the heavy mattresses onto the beds and adorned them with colourful sheets and throws. It wasn’t the neatest of bed-dressings but it was cosy, and better than a bare mattress and threadbare blanket. The remaining home paraphernalia could wait until the next day, Wade decided – right then his stomach was rumbling too much to fasten a single screw more. They had beds, a couch, a TV, and a pot of ceramic cacti resting on the bedroom window-sill. Everything they needed.

 

*         *         *

 

Wade stirred back into consciousness an hour or two after he sun had woken him, the tips of his fingers brushing the bumps of Peter’s spine as he slept at the far edge of the bed. After the first week, Wade had suggested that Peter try sleeping in his own bed, at least at the start of the night, in an attempt to ease some independence into his everyday routine. Eight times out of ten, he’d woken to his mattress shifting as Peter climbed in with him, eager for comfort following a nightmare or anxiety attack, which he was always willing to give. He would have had no issue with Peter sleeping in his bed all the time, were it not for the dreams _he’d_ started having.

  They mostly involved Peter in some kind of compromising position – under Wade, on top of Wade, inside of Wade (he’d been seven-feet tall and dressed as a Viking in that one); the list was endless. Towards the morning, Peter tended to scoot away from him to his own side, but if he started out in Wade’s bed, he liked to snuggle close; which, while adorable, did nothing to quench the stream of erotic fantasies he’d been suddenly blessed (read: cursed) with.

  Trying not to rouse his slumbering bedfellow, Wade eased the covers back and shuffled sleepily to the bathroom. There were two en-suites in the apartment – one with a bath, and one with a shower, which was Wade’s. He turned on the water and let it run while he relieved himself. In his old place, he’d have just pissed in the shower, but for some reason doing it in this clean place he shared with Peter felt weird.

  Stepping under the spray, he wasted no time in attending to the main issue of the morning – his raging boner. Greeting his old friend with a firm handshake, he tried to satisfy himself with thoughts of anything other than Peter; but, like a carousel of fuck-you, his mind revolved back round to that tight body, that perfect ass, those soft eyes, the way his sweet lips parted when he smiled . . .

  He let the translucent white fluid run from his fingers, down the drain, and knocked his head against the tiled wall with a heavy bump. He felt like a recovering alcoholic working at a brewery, and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up.

  Peter was sitting up in bed when he came back, his dark hair flattened on one side, the rest ruffled like a birds’ nest.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Wade tucked his towel tighter around his waist and stepped into the small walk-in closet. He pulled on a pair of comfy jeans and his favourite Bea Arthur T-shirt, hearing the bathroom door click and the shower being switched back on.

  He was on his second bowl of Honey Smacks when Peter wandered into the kitchen, his damp hair wavy, like it always was in the morning. He watched silently as Peter poured himself a bowl and sat down opposite, his eyes fixed on the back of the box. The goofy frog in his sideways cap grinned out at Wade.

  “You used to get toys in the boxes,” Peter observed.

  “Reckon too many kids swallowed ‘em,” Wade said. “Personally, I’d call that natural selection.”

  Peter spooned a huge mound of cereal into his mouth, a dribble of milk escaping down his chin. Wade reached across to wipe it away with his thumb, resisting the urge to then place said thumb in his own mouth. Peter smiled through his mouthful and swallowed, licking his bottom lip in a way that Wade knew wasn’t meant to be seductive, but still made him want to launch himself across the table.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” Wade said, his heart warming at the spark of excitement that lit up Peter’s face. Since that first smile in his filthy apartment, he’d been doing whatever he could to replicate it. If he’d thought Peter was cute before, it was nothing to how his face transformed when he was delighted. He could never deny Peter anything if it made him smile, and he didn’t care if he spoiled him rotten to do so. Christ knows, the kid needed spoiling.

 

*         *         *

 

 Wade could feel the anticipation radiating off Peter as they climbed the steps from the subway. The strange mashup of calliope and techno music drifted towards them from the park, the smell of artery-clogging truck food making their mouths water. It was just coming up for five o’clock, and the street leading down to the Kaleidoscope Carnival was still thick with people, mostly couples and families with kids. Performance artists littered the sidewalk, and pretty girls with trays of toys and candy wandered through the crowds on stilts and unicycles. Peter stopped in front of a shirtless guy slinging a diabolo up in the air, his gleaming eyes round as saucers.

  Wade steered him through the throng towards the flashing lights of the carnival rides. As much as the sumptuous odours wafting over from the trucks were tempting him, he knew from experience that it was best enjoyed rides first, stuffing faces later.

  “Ever been to a carnival?” he asked as they joined the queue for tickets.

  “Course I have,” Peter said. “My aunt and uncle took me to a couple when I was a kid, but I wasn’t allowed on any of the big rides back then.”

  “The height restriction still isn’t in your favour,” Wade said, earning a thump on the arm.

  The tickets were $15 each for unlimited rides and access to the circus tent, and the girl at the booth smiled broadly as she handed over their passes.

  “Y’all have fun now,” she said with a broad Southern twang.

  “Thanks,” Peter said, grabbing the tickets and dragging Wade by the wrist in the direction of the Tilt-A-Whirl. He was proud that Peter was becoming less scared to address strangers, though he was still nervous around larger guys.

  Peter was practically bouncing in his seat as the Tilt-A-Whirl operator – a tall Asian guy with tattoo sleeves and an undercut – lowered the bar across their laps and locked it in place. The music volume swelled and the ride began to spin around on its podium. The operator strolled along the undulating boards with an expert step, grabbing the cars and giving them sharp tugs to send them spinning round faster. Peter shrieked with delight and Wade was distracted from the swirling G-force by the look on his beautiful face. He’d already heard him laugh a couple times when they watched sitcoms together, but he’d never heard him do so with such pure abandon – with such sheer, unbridled joy as he was now.

  Peter wanted to go again immediately after the ride slowed to a halt, but Wade convinced him to try a couple of others first – his virgin stomach wasn’t used to being thrown around at such a speed, and he didn’t want Peter’s first fairground ride experience to include vomit.

  Once they’d exhausted enough rides that even Wade was starting to feel a little green around the gills, he bought them each a cheese-smothered chilli dog so large that Peter could barely hold it in both hands. They wandered through the crowds, observing people brave the rides Peter had been too apprehensive to try. They were watching a group of weak-kneed college kids stumble off the Orbiter, when Peter spotted the Haunted House. The front was painted with gaudy shades of green and red against black, with cartoonish skeletons and zombies emblazoned across the panels. The words TERROR AWAITS were daubed beneath the title in large red letters.

  “Let’s do that,” he said, tugging on Wade’s sleeve. Wade was dubious – wandering through dark rooms with people hell-bent on inflicting terror didn’t seem like the best idea for Peter’s mental state – but he was already being pulled towards it.

  They waited in the sizeable queue and ate the rest of their dogs. When they finally reached the front, they were directed by a bored-looking teenage boy into one of the rickety cars that disappeared through a blood-red curtain into the dark depths of the track. Wade was somewhat mollified – if it was just an old-fashioned ghost train then it couldn’t be too bad.

  They scooted through a corridor lined with torches flickering with fake flames, flanked by automated suits of armours that moved their heads to watch them as they passed. Their first scare came as they approached the first set of doors, which flew open with a sudden gust of cold wind and a loud scream, and their car veered sharply left through a hidden archway to the next section.

  This section was fashioned to look like an old WWII trench, with serrated metal plates lining the walls and low, sloping ceiling. Wade had to admit he was impressed by the quality of this place, especially for a pop-up fairground that only stopped for two months every year. The sound of an air-raid siren wailed from the speakers, married with machine-gun fire and men’s shouting voices. Suddenly, a billow of yellow smoke erupted from their right and a mannequin dressed in 1940's army gear and a gas-mask slammed against a grate beside them. Peter sprung backwards into Wade’s lap and gave a high, slightly hysterical, laugh.

  Their car trundled out of the war zone and into complete darkness, where it stopped, the automated doors slamming behind them, leaving them in almost total silence, save for the echoes of the siren. After two whole static minutes, Wade started to wonder if the car had broken down.

  “Uh . . . hello?” he called.

  The room illuminated with red light like a hundred flares had been set off, and from both sides four mannequins lunged towards the car. They were all stopped by thick chains restraining their necks and hands. Their faces were painted green, like rotted flesh, with splashes of scarlet “blood” dripping from their chins onto their ragged clothing. Peter screamed like a banshee and dug his fingers into Wade’s skin, and Wade automatically reached for his gun, before remembering he’d left it at home for the evening. They moved forwards through the third set of doors into a room full of wrecked furniture. The floor was littered with dismembered body parts, which Wade noticed were also fashioned into pieces of furniture – lamps made of skin, chairs made of bones; it was as if Ed Gein had decorated Pee-wee’s Playhouse. The creepy-ass oil paintings fixed to the walls slowly rotated, each revealing a severed mannequin head. The car slowly began to revolve on the spot, giving them a 360-degree view of the entire room, as the mannequins’ eyes and mouth snapped open and they began to scream. The car spun faster and faster, the lights blurring into streamers, then slowed to a halt and rattled through the exit doors. The glaring carnival lights made them blink, a row of curious faces peering at them from the queue to see their reaction to the ride.

  “Dude,” Wade said to the young operator, who gave him a knowing smirk and released them from the safety bar.

  Once they were back on the grass, Wade turned to look at Peter, who was staring back at the ride.

  “You okay?”

  Peter turned to face him, his mouth slowly broadening into a wide smile. “That was AWESOME.”

  “Really?” Wade laughed incredulously. “You looked ready to crap your pants.”

  “Yeah, but in a good way,” Peter shrugged. “It’s not bad being scared when you’re meant to be, y’know?”

  Wade guessed he understood, and made a mental note to introduce Peter to some of his favourite horror movies (starting with _Hello Dolly!_ ).

  “Circus tent?”

  Peter nodded. Wade bought a large cloud of cotton candy on a stick and they picked at it as they crossed the field towards the large red-and-yellow gazebo. They could hear applause from behind the flaps and stepped inside just in time to see a man with long dreadlocks spitting a burst of flames into the air to whoops and cheers from the surrounding throng of onlookers. Wade and Peter found seats at the end of a row and watched as the fire-eater left the ring and was replaced by four beautiful aerial silk dancers.

  “DP?”

  Wade turned and locked mismatched gaze with the young woman standing beside him in the aisle. Her light-brown skin beneath black leather was decorated with gold paint, perfectly complementing the iris of her left eye.    

  “What the actual fuck?” he leapt from his seat and immediately embraced his old friend.

  “Good to see you too, buddy,” Domino patted him on the back.

  It had been at least five years since Wade had seen his sister-in-arms. About two years after the accident, several months after his split with Vanessa, they’d been partnered together to take down a Yakuza leader in Kobe. Domino – real name Neena Thurman – was famous in the underground grapevine for always having Lady Luck on her side. After the job was done, they’d bumped into each other on several other missions before losing contact.

  “You finally did it – you ran away and joined the circus!” Wade planted a wet, noisy kiss on Domino’s cheek.

  She shoved him off good-naturedly. “There’s a space for you, you know – our last Snake Boy choked on a mouse.”

  Wade doubled over in mimed hilarity. “Just as well I wore my corset, or my sides might have split.”

  Domino looked over his shoulder at Peter’s curious face, watching them. “Hi,” she said, holding out her arm. “Neena.”

  “No, Peter,” the kid grinned and shook her hand.

  “You’re with this ugly mug?”

  “Uh . . .” Peter glanced at Wade, who rolled his eyes.

  “He’s my roommate,” he said – he knew she wouldn’t buy it for a second, but she was smart enough not to question it in front of the kid.

  “Nice to meet you, Pete,” she said. The crowd started clapping as the dancers ended their set. “Gotta scoot – hold back for me later.”

  Wade sat back in his seat and watched her skip to the centre of the ring, draw a handful of throwing knives from her belt and sling them into the air. The audience gasped, watching in captivated horror as the blades arched slowly and came down to land – _thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk_ – in a perfect circle around Domino’s feet, not so much as skimming her afro. Wade and Peter applauded with everyone else, and Domino gave a bow, bouncing on the balls of her bare feet. She swung her arm out to introduce the fire-eater from before, who was pushing a large wheel, about six feet in diameter, towards the centre of the stage.

  “Oh shit,” Wade mumbled. “She’s not . . .”

  The crowd gaped in astonishment as the fire-eater helped Domino strap herself into place on the wheel, a hand or foot at each corner. The fire-eater collected the knives from the ground and walked to the other side of the ring. One of the silk dancers assisted in blindfolding him, while another set the wheel spinning. The fire-eater gripped one of the knives by the blade and Peter clung tight to Wade’s hand. They watched in terrified fascination as the fire-eater threw one, two, three knives directly at Domino, all missing (or hitting, depending on how you thought about it) their target. For the last one, one of the dancers began to spin the guy, turning him in the right direction and smirking at the way he staggered a little in place.

  “I can’t watch,” Peter pressed his hand over his eyes as the dagger let fly. It landed with sure _thunk_ , not two inches from Domino’s right ear. The crowd went wild, applauding and cheering, as the dancers helped the fearless woman down from the wheel and she took a bow.

 

*         *         *

 

“So, come on – where’d you get the kid?” Domino asked, her eyes fixed on Peter as they followed him into the arcade. He’d run a little way ahead of them when he’d spotted the DDR machine. The arcade itself was a permanent fixture at one end of the park, acting as a happy side-along to the carnival while it was in town.

  “Gangster’s brothel,” Wade said, lowering his voice to keep Peter from hearing, not that he probably could over the mechanical trills and tinny machine music. “Cost me just over half a mil but I wasn’t gonna leave him there. The sick fuck had him posing as a girl to keep his clients happy.”

  “Jesus,” Domino shook her head. “He seems pretty well-adjusted considering.”

  “It comes and goes.” He watched Peter examine the ticket exchange counter, remembering that night when he’d come to a similar arcade with Vanessa on their first date. Felt like a lifetime ago. “He still has nightmares and strange guys freak him out sometimes.”

  “Poor kid,” she gave him a sideways glance. “He’s very pretty.”

  “It’s killing me,” Wade sighed. She’d known him long enough not to judge. “It’s like being smothered in bubble-wrap and being told not to pop it.”

  “So you’ve not—?”

  “Jeez, Dom, no,” Wade shook his head vehemently. “I’ll shank a bitch but I’m not a rapist.”

  “Who said anything about rape?” she said. “He obviously thinks the sun shines outta your craggy ass.”

  “You finally gone blind in that crazy eye of yours?” Wade frowned. “Besides, he’s only seventeen.”

  “C’mon, dude, he’s hardly a baby.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s been through way too much to need that shit.” He shifted his face into a smile as Peter came bounding up to them.

  “Can I play some games?” he asked.

  “Betcha I can whoop your butt on this bad boy,” Domino said, pointing to the DDR.

  “Yeah, bet you can,” Peter grinned ruefully, but he joined her on the spot-lit podiums anyway. Wade leaned against the bar on Peter’s side and inserted the four quarters needed for one round. He knew Domino was a machine when it came to this, having out-dance-off’d him on many a drunken night in karaoke bars across Asia. Then he remembered Peter’s pole-dancing skills and thought it might be a fairer fight than he’d first thought. Peter certainly held his own, his quick footwork making up for his lack of familiarity with the songs, but Domino pipped him to the post by just a couple of points.

  “Close call, Petey,” she gave him a high five and he looked delighted. His whole face lit up when he smiled like that, and Wade’s heart melted quicker than a stick of butter in Mount Doom. He felt a swell of pride at how well Peter was adapting to life in the outside world, and how quickly. He could see the happy boy he would have been before all the awful shit happened.

  “Wade, were you watching?” Peter asked breathlessly, leaning over the bar so they were almost nose-to-nose.

  “Every move, baby boy,” Wade grinned. “You really kicked ass.”

  Peter took hold of his arm and pulled. “Your turn.”

  “Against Crazy Legs?” he laughed “No way.”

  “No, against me.”

  Wade shrugged and stepped up onto the platform, Domino stepping down to make room for him on the space next to Peter.

  “Oh, this should be good,” she smirked. “Thrill us with your dad dancing, DP.”

  Peter selected a peppy K-pop song and Wade prepared himself for humiliation. His heavy stamps, designed more for crushing femurs than cutting footloose, were particularly comical against Peter’s dainty toe-taps. The kid was a natural.

  “You should be on a stage, kid,” Domino said. Peter’s face twitched and Wade quickly took his hand. Domino sensed she’d made an error and didn’t pursue the topic. They played a few more games, earning enough tickets to buy a bottle of bubbles, after which they wandered outside again. Peter kept his fingers stubbornly wrapped around Wade’s, his slender digits practically eclipsed by Wade’s thick, calloused ones. It had been so hot in the tent that he’d let his hood drop, but not as many people were staring in horror as usual; the safety of being surrounded by the strange and wonderful.

  He hadn’t told Peter that there were going to be fireworks at nightfall, and guided him as casually as he could to the corral where people were starting to gather. The first rocket exploded in a mass of gold and blue stars and Peter gasped in unbridled delight, wrapping both his arms around Wade’s bicep, their fingers still firmly intertwined. Wade tried to focus on the fireworks painting the sky like glitter-bomb comets, but all he could process was how warm and soft and _right_ Peter’s hand felt in his. It was getting harder and harder (that’s what she said) to remind himself that Peter was Off Limits, especially when he was nuzzling into his side, trying to wriggle his way into Wade’s embrace. Obligingly, he slung his arm around the little devil’s shoulders and tried not to sigh when he felt Peter’s own curl around his waist. He couldn’t accuse the kid of acting inappropriately, since everything he did could be interpreted as totally innocent; it was just his desperate mind twisting everything into something that made his heart glow and his dick harden.

  The rockets went on for about ten minutes, getting steadily bigger and brighter until he thought Peter might explode from excitement, and the crowd dispersed back to the carnival.

  “Ready for home?” He felt a twinge of pleasure at the word falling so easily from his tongue. He’d considered his shitty apartment as simply a place to fester and sleep. The bright, clean place he shared with Peter felt more like home after just two weeks than the other place had in years.

 

*         *         *

 

Peter could feel his eyelids drooping to the gentle swaying of the subway car as it carried them beneath the bustling city. Tonight had been the best night be could remember in a long, long time. Not since he, Ellen and Jay had snuck out on his birthday had he felt so . . . normal. Like any other New Yorker having Friday night fun with their boyfriend.

  His cheeks flushed crimson as the word sang in his mind. As much as he’d tried, he was finding it increasingly more impossible not to think of Wade in that way. How could he not? The guy was sweet, funny, caring to the point of being fierce, and treated Peter like he was the most precious thing in the world. Peter knew he was cripplingly self-conscious of his skin, but he could say with absolute honestly that he barely noticed it anymore. He could see plainly how handsome he must have been before whatever accident had befallen him (he’d yet to pluck up the courage to ask), and his heart still skipped a beat when he smiled.

  He’d never had much cause or reason to feel this way about anyone since he’d hit puberty. He’d amateurly crushed on some boys in elementary school – the ways kids do – but at the time he’d usually be exploring feelings in more detail, he was being taught to twirl around a pole and toss his hair. He’d shared a few sympathetic kisses with Jay when he’d been caught in the sinkhole of loneliness that always threatened to engulf him, but this felt different. He hadn’t kissed Wade, but the thought of doing so made his stomach flutter, and not in the sickening way it used to when he was expecting a client at Crewe’s.

  The problem was that Wade was convinced that any gestures of affection Peter offered were from some sense of gratitude. In the beginning, that might have been the case – Peter only really knew sex as a form of payment, of persuasion, something he was obligated to do. This was the first time he’d wanted to touch someone of his own volition. He didn’t know if he was ready to sleep with Wade – his ass liked its new sense of freedom – but if he could just touch him; hold his hand without him tensing, cuddle up against him on the sofa, curl up beside him in the bed he wished they shared all the time. It was always so lonely in his room – well-furnished and homey as it was.

  He knew Wade wanted him – or at least _thought_ he knew – but he dared to hope that it was more than that. He’d sometimes caught him staring in a way that he could only describe as ‘loving’. Like he wanted to lift him off his feet and cradle him in his arms. Peter wished he would.

  He rested his head gently against Wade’s shoulder and let himself be rocked by the train’s motion. He felt Wade sigh deeply and lean his own head to the side, his nose nuzzling Peter’s hair. He seemed half-asleep himself.

  “Wade?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Thanks for today.”

  Wade smiled drowsily. “You’re welcome, kid.”

  Peter pouted a little – he preferred it when he called him ‘baby boy’.

  “Can we go to the movies tomorrow?”

  “Sure, whatever you want.”

  He knew he meant that – Wade would give him whatever he wanted, _do_ whatever he wanted, save for one thing. A part of it was to do with his being under eighteen and therefore a minor, making any romantic interaction – sexual or otherwise – illegal. It was pretty much the one law Wade stood fast by, never wavering. It was an admirable trait, but immeasurably annoying when all Peter wanted to do was reach up and touch those scarred lips. He hadn’t told Wade this yet, but it was less than a week until his eighteenth birthday. After the punishments following his sixteenth birthday escapades, he’d not bothered celebrating his seventeenth, but he knew that an eighteenth was meant to be special. He just didn’t want Wade to think that by mentioning it he was hinting that he wanted loads of presents or whatever. The only thing he wanted from Wade was his affections. More specifically, a kiss.

  That night, he got straight into Wade’s bed instead of his own, but Wade didn’t try to dissuade him. He hoped that, if he did this enough, Wade would simply give up and allow him to share his bed always. It wasn’t just because of the nightmares, as those were beginning to lessen sleep by sleep – it was simply because he loved knowing Wade was only an arm’s length away. Yes, it made him feel safe, but it also made him feel normal. To share a bed with the guy he was rapidly falling in love with.

  He blushed to think of it, but was it really so strange? Wade had shown him nothing but compassion and generosity since they first met. He didn’t treat Peter as an object to be used, but rather as a person with his own thoughts, feelings and opinions. He respected and protected him, never asking for anything in return. He’d taken Peter into his home with little concern for how it might shake up his own life, so concerned had he been with improving the quality of Peter’s. Was it so unexpected for him to fall in love with someone so kind? Wade had this idea that he was a monster because of what he did for a living and the way he looked, but Peter was finding it very difficult to care about any of that. He already knew many men with far less scruples who would happily kill innocent people for money, which he knew Wade never would. He was just lucky that there were enough bad people in the world for his meal-ticket to never expire. As for how he looked, it made Peter’s heart hurt to see how much Wade hated his appearance. There was always a wince or grimace when he caught sight of his reflection, and he knew Wade was still unconvinced by his indifference. He couldn’t see what Peter saw – those deep, ocean-blue eyes, that wicked smile, the way his whole face lit up when Peter was happy, the muscle definition in his torso that made Peter’s hands itch with the urge to touch it.

  It was an overpowering relief to know that he wasn’t completely screwed up (only a tiny bit) following his incarceration. The fact that he could still summon these long-forgotten feelings of romantic attraction was enough to make him glow with genuine, untainted happiness. He wasn’t sure what his subconscious reaction would be if he tried to sleep with Wade, but he was practically drowning in his desire for a kiss, or even a prolonged hug.

  He lay like a tin soldier under the covers, eyes closed, listening to the noises of Wade brushing his teeth, rinsing and spitting. He heard the click of the light switch and opened his eyes to watch Wade approaching, half illuminated through the window, pulling off his sweater and dumping it on a chair. He stood by the bed for a moment, hands on his hips, staring down with an exasperated smile.

  “No point moving you, is there?”

  “Nope.”

  He gave a small snort of mirth and lifted the duvet, sliding in beside him. “You’re like a disobedient puppy.”

  “Arf.” Peter wriggled across the mattress and planted himself firmly beneath Wade’s outstretched arm, resting his head against his steady heartbeat. It soothed him more easily than any pill. He ran his hand over the ridges in his abs, appreciating the unique pattern of intertwining scars that swirled beneath his fingertips. Wade’s hand rested on Peter’s wrist, stilling the movement.

  “Down, boy,” he mumbled sleepily. “Or it’s back in your basket.”

  “Maybe you should put me on a leash,” Peter said wickedly, feeling Wade tense beneath him and clear his throat. He knew better than to push the merc too far, or he’d be banished from the bed in earnest, so he didn’t say any more of the wildly inappropriate thoughts dancing around his head. His chest ached with longing and the desperate wish to turn Wade’s gaze towards him, to stare into those beautiful eyes and express everything he felt inside – his gratitude, his admiration, and the deep connection he felt toward this unlikely captor of his heart.

  And once he turned eighteen, Hell’s own fury wouldn’t be able to stop him.

 

*         *         *

 

“Friends?” Peter looked up at Wade over the top of his cereal, spoon raised halfway to his mouth.

  “Yep,” Wade slid a slice of bread into the toaster and leaned against the kitchen counter. “You can’t hang out with a crusty old man like me all the time – you need kids of your own age to play with.”

  “I’m not a kid,” Peter pouted. “I like being with you.”

  “I know,” Wade smiled, obviously pleased. “And I like being with you too, but your world can’t revolve around one person or you’ll suffocate.”

  Peter set his spoon down, tapping it petulantly against the rim of his bowl. “I don’t know anyone my age.”

  “That’s why I want to set up a play-date for you,” Wade said, grinning at the glower he received at the word. “Domino’s niece – she’s your age.”

  Peter’s insides squirmed anxiously. “I have Ellen. And Jay.”

  Since he’d left Crewe’s, he’d seen his two former workmates a couple of times, during which Ellen grilled him about how Wade was treating him and Jay told her to stop being so paranoid. They’d hung out at the apartment while Wade ran errands, and he could tell they were both pleased and impressed – even Ellen – by how settled he was in his new life.

  “Yeah, and they’re great,” Wade said. “But I think you need someone outside of that part of your life, someone who’s not blinded by the urge to protect you all the time, like we do.”

  Peter had to admit he had a point. Ellen and Jay had always treated him more like a defenceless baby brother than a friend.

  Wade lifted his toast out and spread a thick layer of peanut butter over it. Noticing the way Peter’s lips were pressed tightly together, he added, “If you’re not ready—”

  “No,” Peter shook his head sharply. He didn’t want Wade to think he was a coward. “It’s fine. What’s her name?”

  “Michelle. You sure you’re okay with it?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded, trying to settle the snakes in his stomach.

  “D’you want the place to yourself when she comes over?”

  He couldn’t tell if Wade was insinuating that him and this Michelle might get up to more than just friendly banter or not. He shrugged, not liking the idea that Wade would consider this a possibility. He had about as much interest in getting frisky with this girl as he would in bathing in frogspawn. He decided to derail this train of thought from Wade’s mind by dropping the bombshell he’d been sitting on since they’d visited the carnival three days ago.

  “It’s my birthday on Friday.”

  Wade’s limbs stuck as though hit by a comic book freeze-ray.

  “Your eighteenth?”

  Peter nodded.

  Wade stared at him for a moment, before pulling his phone out of his pocket and stomping from the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Peter, used to these types of dramatic outbursts by this point, merely continued eating his cereal until Wade returned, breathing heavily.

  “It’s your eighteenth birthday and you give me _two days_ to make it awesome? Dick move, kid.”

  Peter grinned and shrugged ruefully. “You never asked.”

  “You little. . .” He trapped Peter’s neck in the crook of his elbow and rubbed his knuckles on the crown of his head.

  “Ow!” Peter laughed, grabbing his arm. “Get off, you big bully!”

  “Never, you must be punished,” Wade pinched Peter’s cheeks and pulled so he looked like a frog.

  Peter tried to yell: “Help, abuse!” but the way his mouth was stretched made it come out as: “Helf, avoosh!”

  Wade released his face and, before Peter could register it, planted a kiss on his forehead. “I’m gonna Happy Birthday the shit outta you, baby boy.”

  Peter glowed. For the first time in nearly four years, he felt excited about his birthday.                   

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read this far, thank you! 
> 
> Please subscribe for future chapter uploads (which will be swift, I swear!), kudos and leave a comment if you liked this even a little bit! Comments sustain me more than oxygen. 
> 
> These boys are in for one hell of a ride!


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